na 


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CRIMES  OF  CHARITY 


THE  NEWEST  BORZOI  BOOKS 

ASPHALT 

By  Orrick  Johns 

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CENTRAL  EUROPE 

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THE  BOOK  OF  SELF 
By  James  Oppenheim 

THE  BOOK  OF  CAMPING 
By  A.  Hyatt  Verrill 

THE  ECHO  OF  VOICES 
By  Richard  Curie 

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THE  JOURNAL  OF  LEO  TOLSTOI  (1895- 
1899) 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SUPER- 
TRAMP 
By  William  H.  Davies 
Preface  by  Bernard  Shavs 

P^^^g^^B!Sa^^S5p^^Sa^6gS^ 


CRIMES  0/ CHARITY 


BY 


KONRAD  BERCOVICI 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

BY    JOHN     REED 


NEW  YORK    ALFRED  A.  KNOPF    MCMXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1917.  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


MINTBD   IH   TH«  TJNtTRD  STATtS  OT   AUUIICA 


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To  my  Naomi 


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INTRODUCTION 

There  is  a  literary  power  which  might  be  called 
Russian  —  a  style  of  bald  narration  which  carries 
absolute  conviction  of  human  character,  in  simple 
words  packed  with  atmosphere.  Only  the  best 
writers  have  it;  this  book  is  full  of  it.  I  read 
the  manuscript  more  than  a  year  ago,  and  I  re- 
member it  chiefly  as  a  series  of  vivid  pictures  — 
a  sort  of  epic  of  our  City  of  Dreadful  Day. 
Here  we  see  and  smell  and  hear  the  East  Side; 
its  crowded,  gasping  filth,  the  sour  stench  of  its 
grinding  poverty,  the  cries  and  groans  and  la- 
mentations in  many  alien  tongues  of  the  hopeful 
peoples  whose  hope  is  broken  in  the  Promised 
Land.  Pale,  undersized,  violent  children  at  play 
in  the  iron  street;  the  brown,  steamy  warmth  of 
Jewish  coffee-houses  on  Grand  Street;  sick  tene- 
ment rooms  quivering  and  breathless  in  summer 
heat  —  starkly  hungry  with  the  December  wind 
cutting  through  broken  windows ;  poets,  musicians, 
men  and  women  with  the  blood  of  heroes  and  mar- 
tyrs, babies  who  might  grow  up  to  be  the  world's 
great  —  stunted,  weakened,  murdered  by  the  un- 
fair struggle  for  bread.     What  human  stories  are 


Introduction 


in  this  book  I  What  tremendous  dramas  of  the 
soul  I 

It  is  as  if  we  were  under  water,  looking  at  the 
hidden  hull  of  this  civilization.  Evil  growths 
cling  to  it  —  houses  of  prostitution,  sweat-shops 
which  employ  the  poor  in  their  bitter  need  at  less 
than  living  wages,  stores  that  sell  them  rotten  food 
and  shabby  clothing  at  exorbitant  prices,  horrible 
rents,  and  all  the  tragi-comic  manifestations  of 
Organised  Charity. 

Every  person  of  intelligence  and  humanity  who 
has  seen  the  workings  of  Organised  Charity, 
knows  what  a  deadening  and  life-sapping  thing  it 
is,  how  unnecessarily  cruel,  how  uncomprehending. 
Yet  it  must  not  be  criticised,  investigated  or  at- 
tacked. Like  patriotism,  charity  is  respectable, 
an  institution  of  the  rich  and  great  —  like  the 
high  tariff,  the  open  shop.  Wall  street,  and 
Trinity  Church.  White  slavery  recruits  itself 
from  charity,  industry  grows  bloated  with  it, 
landlords  live  off  it;  and  it  supports  an  army  of 
officers,  investigators,  clerks  and  collectors,  whom 
it  systematically  debauches.  Its  giving  is  made 
the  excuse  for  lowering  the  recipients'  standard  of 
living,  of  depriving  them  of  privacy  and  independ- 
ence, or  subjecting  them  to  the  crudest  mental  and 
physical  torture,  of  making  them  liars,  cringers, 
thieves.  The  law,  the  police,  the  church  are  the 
accomplices  of  charity.     And  how  could  it  be 


Introduction 


otherwise,  considering  those  who  give,  how  they 
give,  and  the  terrible  doctrine  of  "  the  deserv- 
ing poor "  ?  There  is  nothing  of  Christ  the 
compassionate  in  the  immense  business  of  Orga- 
nised Charity ;  its  object  is  to  get  efficient  results  — 
and  that  means,  in  practise,  to  just  keep  alive  vast 
numbers  of  servile,  broken-spirited  people. 

I  know  of  publishers  who  refused  this  book,  not 
because  it  was  untrue,  or  badly  written ;  but  because 
they  themselves  "  believed  in  Organised  Charity." 
One  of  them  wrote  that  "  there  must  be  a  bright 
side."  I  have  never  heard  the  "  bright  side." 
To  those  of  us  who  know,  even  the  Charity  or- 
ganisation reports  —  when  they  do  not  refuse  to 
publish  them  —  are  unspeakably  terrible.  To 
them.  Poverty  is  a  crime,  to  be  punished;  to  us, 
Organised  Charity  is  a  worse  one. 

John  Reed. 


CONTENTS 

The  Stove  —  A  Parable    3 

My  First  Impression    6 

The  Second  Day    20 

At  Work    26 

Watch  Their  Mail    49 

The  Roller  Skates    59 

The  Test    69 

Scabs    80 

Saving  Him    86 

"  Too  Good  to  Them  "    90 

Robbers  of  the  Peace     ioi 

The  Sign  at  the  Door     106 

What  is  Done  IN  His  Name?     118 

The  Picture     121 

The  Price  of  Life     131 

Air  —  From  Fifth  Floor  to  Basement     139 

The  Investigators    145 

The  Children  of  the  Poor    150 

Mother  and  Son    161 

Clipping  Wings  of  Little  Birds    167 

The  Orphan  Home    174 

Why  They  Give    185 

The  Kitchen    192 

Chocolate    196 

Out  of  Their  Clutches    199 

"  The  Home  "    202 


Contents 

"  Bismarck  "    209 

Twenty-one  Cents  and  a  Quarter    213 

Visiting  Day    223 

Employment  Agencies    225 

My  Last  Week  IN  THE  Waiting  Room    231 

Tuesday    244 

Wednesday    253 

At  Night    258 

Thursday    264 


CRIMES  OF  CHARITY 


CRIMES  OF  CHARITY 


THE  STOVE  — A  PARABLE 

THERE  was  once  a  man  with  a  merciful 
heart  who  had  a  large  fortune,  and  when 
he  died  he  left  much  gold  to  his  brother 
to  use  as  he  wished,  and  an  additional  amount  in 
trust,  to  succour  the  poor.     In  his  will  he  wrote: 

"  Build  a  big  house  and  put  therein  a  big  stove 
and  heat  the  stove  well.  On  the  door  thou  shalt 
put  a  sign  in  red  letters  that  shall  read :  *  Ye  poor 
of  the  land,  come  in  and  warm  your  bodies;  ye 
hungry  of  the  land,  come  and  get  a  bowl  of  warm 
wine  and  a  loaf  of  bread.'  This  will  be  my  mon- 
ument. I  want  no  tombstone  on  the  grave  where- 
in my  body  will  lie.  Dust  unto  dust  descends, 
but  my  soul  will  be  alive  in  the  blessings  of  the 
poor." 

Peacefully  the  man  died.  They  buried  him 
In  a  lonely  place  under  a  tree. 

Then  the  brother  brought  masons  and  carpen- 
ters and  built  a  big  house  of  stone,  as  was  written 
in  the  will,  and  when  the  house  was  finished  he 
called  a  painter  and  had  painted  in  letters,  red 

3 


Crimes  of  Charity 


and  big,  so  they  could  be  seen  from  very  far,  the 
words  his  brother  had  written:  "  Ye  poor  of  the 
land,  come  in  and  warm  your  bodies;  ye  hungry 
of  the  land,  come  and  get  a  bowl  of  warm  wine 
and  a  loaf  of  bread."  And  every  one  admired 
the  good  deed  and  many  other  rich  men  prepared 
their  wills  so  as  to  provide  help  for  the  poor,  that 
they  might  live  eternally  in  their  blessings. 

The  next  day,  when  the  stove,  the  big  stove, 
was  put  in,  the  brother  of  the  dead  threw  the 
doors  open  for  a  feast  to  the  rich.  And  they 
all  blessed  the  dead  because  of  his  goodness  to 
the  poor. 

On  the  third  day  the  doors  were  opened  to  the 
poor,  and  it  so  happened  that  the  locusts  had 
eaten  up  the  wheat  on  the  fields  that  year,  so 
that  there  were  many  without  bread  and  who  had 
to  seek  shelter  in  other  places.  They  passed  by 
the  red  sign  and  came  in  to  warm  themselves 
and  eat,  and  though  busy  with  their  own  sorrows 
they  blessed  the  dead  one. 

Many  were  the  bowls  of  wine  and  loaves  of 
bread  given  to  the  poor.  But  the  brother  was 
greedy  and  wanted  all  for  himself,  so  day  and 
night  his  constant  thought  was  how  to  comply 
with  the  will  of  his  brother  and  the  sign  on  the 
door  and  yet  not  give  bread  and  wine  to  the 
poor.  He  read  the  will  again  and  the  devil 
fastened  him  to  the  word  "  stove,"  and  the  devil 


The  Stove  —  A  Parable 


within  him  said:  "  Stove ^ — stove  —  the  stove 
will  save  you." 

Greed  sharpened  his  wits  and  the  next  morning 
he  rose  early  and  made  a  big  fire  and  closed  all 
the  windows  and  doors.  When  the  poor  came 
to  warm  themselves  the  heat  would  chase  them 
out  again,  and  instead  of  blessing  they  cursed  the 
dead  who  had  so  artfully  attracted  them  into  the 
house,  only  to  torture  them  with  the  heat  of  the 
room.  The  wine  would  remain  untasted  and  the 
bread  untouched. 

The  poor  of  the  land  spoke : 

"  Are  we  to  be  punished  because  the  locusts  ate 
our  grain?  " 

And  the  house  is  called  "  the  Devil's  Spot." 
The  wanderer  freezes  on  the  snow-covered  field, 
the  poor  starve  in  their  huts,  but  they  take  not 
the  bread.  And  one  day,  a  child  said:  "  See!  the 
sign  I  the  red  letters  are  written  with  blood." 

In  a  lonely  place  is  the  forgotten  grave  of  a 
merciful  man. 

On  a  lonely  road  is  a  house,  where  the  poor 
dare  not  enter,  and  on  the  big  stove  stands  the 
devil,  and  laughs  and  laughs.  And  when  one 
asked  him  why  he  laughed  the  devil  showed  his 
teeth  and  answered :  "  This  is  the  best  place  that 
ever  man  built  for  me." 


MY  FIRST  IMPRESSION 

I  WAS  ushered  into  the  private  office  of  the 
Manager  of  the  Charity  Institution.  He 
was  writing  at  his  desk  with  his  back  to- 
wards the  door.  He  did  not  turn  when  we  came 
in.  My  protector,  Mr.  B.,  who  obtained  this 
job  for  me  as  special  investigator,  coughed  a  few 
times  to  attract  the  Manager's  attention.  Finally 
the  gentleman  turned  around. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  did  not  know  you 
were  in  the  office  at  all  I     I  am  so  busy,  you  see." 

I  well  knew  that  he  was  aware  of  our  presence, 
because  he  had  sent  the  office  boy  to  call  us. 

"  And  who  is  this  gentleman  ? "  he  asked, 
turning  in  his  chair  and  scrutinising  me  from  head 
to  foot. 

Mr.  B.  introduced  me,  added  a  few  complimen- 
tary remarks  as  to  my  ability  and  honesty,  and 
finished  with,  "  I  know  he's  just  the  man  we  want." 

The  Manager,  Mr.  Rogers,  kept  on  looking  at 
me  while  the  other  spoke,  and  having  most  prob- 
ably satisfied  himself  that  I  was  all  right,  nodded 
to  Mr.  B.,  rang  for  the  office  boy  and  called  in 
the  Assistant  Manager,  to  whom  he  in  turn  intro- 
duced me,  finishing  with,  "  Don't  you  think  that 

6 


My  First  Impression 


he'll  do?"  To  which  the  Assistant  Manager  re- 
spectfully assented. 

"  In  fact,"  Mr.  Rogers  said  to  the  Assistant 
Manager,  "  Mr.  Lawson,  I  think  I'll  give  him 
over  to  you." 

"  Sir,"  he  again  addressed  me,  "  you  are  under 
the  orders  of  Mr.  Lawson.  You  will  report  to 
him,  take  his  orders,  his  advice,  and  I  hope  that 
everything  will  be  right."  As  he  finished  he 
politely  led  us  to  the  door.  "  Good-bye,  sir. 
Let's  hope  you  will  accomplish  the  right  kind  of 
work  for  us." 

We  entered  the  office  of  the  Assistant  Manager. 
Mr.  B.  soon  excused  himself  and  left  the  room. 
Mr.  Lawson  let  me  wait  fully  ten  minutes  before 
he  addressed  a  word  to  me.  He  busied  himself 
with  the  different  papers  in  the  pigeon  holes 
of  his  desk,  but  this  was  only  pretence,  I  felt 
right  along,  to  impress  me  with  his  superior 
rank. 

After  having  satisfied  himself  that  he  had  ac- 
complished this,  he  said  to  me,  still  looking  at 
the  papers: 

"  Why  don't  you  sit  down?     Sit  down,  sir." 

There  was  no  chair  except  the  one  right  near 
his  desk,  so  I  had  to  remain  standing. 

"  What's  your  name?  " 

"Baer,  Baer." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  and  he  offered  the  chair  near  his 


8  Crimes  of  Charity 

desk.  I  had  hardly  seated  myself  when  he  stood 
up,  and  making  a  wry  face  said : 

"  I  haven't  any  time  to-day  to  give  you  instruc- 
tions. We'll  leave  it  for  to-morrow.  Mean- 
while, I'll  turn  you  over  to  Mr.  Cram.  He  might 
be  of  use  to  you,  as  he  has  had  a  great  deal 
of  experience  in  this  line  of  work." 

He  rang  for  the  office  boy.  "  Call  Mr.  Cram," 
was  the  order.  A  few  seconds  later  Mr.  Cram,  a 
young  man  of  about  twenty,  appeared.  Mr.  Law- 
son  introduced  me  and  told  Cram  to  keep  me  at  his 
desk  for  the  afternoon.     It  was  one  o'clock. 

We  passed  through  all  the  offices,  where  he  in- 
troduced me  to  a  few  of  the  other  employees,  and 
then  proceeded  to  the  basement. 

The  place  was  in  half  darkness,  cold  and 
dreary,  and  I  stumbled  along.  Near  the  windows, 
towards  the  street,  was  a  desk,  and  near  the  desk 
a  gas  oven.  Cram  put  a  chair  near  the  desk, 
and  as  my  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  semi- 
darkness  I  began  to  distinguish  men,  women  and 
children  sitting  on  the  benches  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  cellar. 

Mr.  Cram  again  inquired  my  name,  remem- 
bered that  he  had  read  some  of  my  stories,  shook 
hands  again  with  me  and  added  that  he  was  him- 
self a  "  red  hot  Socialist,"  "  a  reformer  "  of  the 
real  kind,  and  he  grew  very  friendly.     I  had  lit 


My  First  Impression 


a  cigarette,  but  seeing  a  "  No  smoking  "  sign  I 
put  it  out. 

"  Why  don't  you  smoke?  "  he  asked,  filling  his 
pipe.  I  pointed  to  the  sign.  "  That  is  not  for 
us,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  pointing 
to  the  people  who  were  sitting  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room.  *'  That's  for  the  applicants  —  for 
the  rabble,  you  know." 

I  refused  to  smoke.  He  sat  at  his  desk, 
fumbled  in  the  pigeon-holes  for  awhile,  then  sat 
back  in  his  chair  and  puffed  dreamily  at  his  pipe 
for  a  few  moments,  following  with  his  eyes  the 
smoke-rings.     Then  he  called  out  unconcernedly: 

"GrunI" 

Nobody  answered. 

"  Grun !  "  he  called  again,  this  time  louder. 

"  What's  the  matter?  Grun !  Grun !  "  and  put- 
ting his  pipe  down  on  the  desk  he  stood  up  and 
looked  over  to  where  the  "  rabble  "  sat. 

"Whose  name  is  Grun?     Grun?" 

A  man  of  about  forty  stood  up  and  asked: 
"Grun?     Did  you  call  Grun?'* 

Mr.  Cram  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"Can't  you  hear?"  he  thundered.  "Can't 
you  hear  when  I  call?     Come  here  —  you." 

"  Ha  ?  "  the  applicant  queried  submissively. 

"  Can't  you  hear?  "  and  turning  to  me  he  said: 
"You  see?  that's  how  they  are!  Spite-workers. 
He'll  let  me  call  ten  times,  as  though  I  was  the 


lO  Crimes  of  Charity 

applicant  and  not  he;  they  are  all  the  same, 
vicious  scoundrels  —  derelicts,  beggars,  rascals. 
You'll  see  what  a  damned  lie  he'll  put  up." 

He  sat  back  on  his  chair  and  read  the  appli- 
cation a  few  times. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Ha  ?  "  the  poor  man  queried  again,  putting 
a  hand  to  his  ear  and  bending  over  the  desk. 

"Are  you  crazy?  Don't  you  understand? 
How  old  are  you?"  And  addressing  me  again 
he  said:  "  A  fine  job,  Isn't  It?  " 

"  Ha?  speak  a  little  louder.  I'm  hard  of  hear- 
ing," the  applicant  begged. 

"  Write  down  your  questions,"  I  suggested, 
giving  the  man  pencil  and  paper. 

"  Oh !  I  see !  "  Cram  said,  "  you  have  no  ex- 
perience. Do  you  really  think  that  he  cannot 
hear?  It's  a  fake  —  a  fake.  He  hears  better 
than  you  and  I.  It's  a  fake  —  a  rotten  old  trick. 
I  tell  you,  It's  some  job  I  have." 

"  But  maybe  he  Is  deaf,"  I  insisted. 

Mr.  Cram  looked  at  me  with  scorn,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  applicant  he  shouted  at  the  top  of  his 
voice : 

"  How  old  are  you?  " 

"  A  little  louder,"  the  man  begged. 

The  Investigator  puffed  at  his  pipe  in  disgust, 
and  after  my  insistence  consented  to  write  down 
his  questions. 


My  First  Impression  1 1 

"How  long  have  you  been  deaf?"  he  wrote 
down. 

"  I  have  just  been  discharged  from  the  hos- 
pital," the  man  answered.  "  They  made  an  op- 
eration on  my  ears." 

"You  see?"  I  put  in. 

"  Oh !  it's  all  a  fake  —  a  rotten  old  fake.  He 
hears  better  than  you  and  I,  I  tell  you,"  Cram 
still  insisted. 

"  Have  you  a  doctor's  certificate?  "  I  wrote  on 
a  slip,  handing  it  to  the  applicant. 

Quickly  the  man  fumbled  at  his  vest  pocket, 
to  prove  his  case,  but  Cram  did  not  want  to  be 
convinced.  With  a  movement  of  his  hand  he 
stopped  the  man. 

"It's  all  right.  We  know  it  all.  It's  all  a 
fake,  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Baer.  They  get  certificates 
for  fifty  cents." 

I  looked  up  at  the  applicant.  His  face  be- 
trayed no  sign  that  he  heard  what  had  just  been 
said,  and  I  thought  it  fortunate  for  the  "  red  hot 
Socialist." 

Cram  put  his  application  in  a  pigeon-hole  and 
told  the  man  to  go  home.  The  man  did  not  move, 
but  fixed  questioning  eyes  on  Cram's  lips,  seeking 
to  understand. 

"  Go  home,"  the  other  yelled.  He  showed 
no  sign  of  understanding  except  that  he  knew  he 
was  addressed.     "  Ha  ?  "  he  queried. 


12  Crimes  of  Charity 

**  Go  to  hell,"  Cram  answered. 

I  wrote  upon  a  piece  of  paper :  "  Go  home,  the 
gentleman  says." 

"  I  have  no  home,"  he  quickly  answered. 

"  You  hear?  "  I  turned  to  Cram. 

"  If  he  has  no  home  let  him  go  and  get  one," 
was  the  angry  retort. 

"  Therefore  he  applied  to  charity,"  I  permitted 
myself  to  say. 

"  This  is  no  place  for  vagabonds,"  Cram  ex- 
plained, without  looking  at  me.  "  He  must  have 
an  address  so  we  can  send  an  investigator  and 
see  whether  it  is  a  worthy  case." 

"Well,  but  if  he  has  no  home?" 

"  Then  he  cannot  obtain  charity.  This  is  our 
rule." 

Again  Cram  fumbled  in  his  desk,  gave  the 
man  back  his  application  and  wrote  on  top  of  it: 
"  Go  upstairs." 

With  a  stupid  look  on  his  face  the  man  stood 
with  the  paper  in  hand  and  did  not  know  what  to 
do  or  what  it  all  meant.  Cram  showed  him  the 
door.  The  man  stood  stupidly.  Cram  rang  a 
bell  —  an  office  boy  came.  "  Lead  him  upstairs," 
was  the  order;  "  he's  deaf." 

The  office  boy  took  the  man  by  the  hand. 
"  Come  on  upstairs,"  and  jokingly  to  Cram, 
**  They  have  spread  the  table  for  you  there." 

Soon  I  heard  his  heavy  steps  on  the  stairs. 


My  First  Impression  13 

"Will  they  give  him  something  upstairs?" 
I  inquired. 

"  They'll  give  him  in  the  neck,"  he  laughed. 
"  They'll  put  him  out." 

"  Why  don't  you  help  him?  The  charities  are 
here  for  that,"  I  said. 

"  My  dear  friend,  you  don't  understand  this 
business  yet,"  the  investigator  said.  "  We  don't 
take  stock  in  his  deafness.  It's  a  fake,  an  old 
trick." 

"  Yes,  but  his  certificate  proves  something, 
doesn't  it?" 

"  I  didn't  see  it,"  Cram  answered. 

"  But  he  wanted  to  show  it  to  you,  did  he  not?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  not  want  to  see  it.  It's  all  a 
fake.  Wait,  when  you  have  been  in  the  business 
long  enough  you  will  not  speak  that  way."  Again 
he  fumbled  in  his  desk. 

I  looked  at  him.  He  had  eyes,  a  nose  and  a 
mouth  —  a  face  —  yet  he  did  not  look  human  to 
me.  What  was  missing  anyway?  And  as  I  did 
not  then  know  what  charities  were  really  for, 
I  thought  at  that  moment: 

"  This  place  is  for  a  human  being  with  a  big 
heart,  that  could  feel  the  pain  of  every  sufferer 
—  a  human  being  with  a  desire  to  help  his  fellow 
creatures  —  who  would  speak  to  him  who  comes 
to  apply  for  help  words  that  would  be  like  balsam, 
who  would  feel  ashamed  that  he  has  a  home  and 


14  Crimes  of  Charity 

bread  to  eat  while  others  are  walking  the  streets, 
hungry  and  homeless.  Surely  '  upstairs  *  they  do 
not  know  how  this  man  treats  the  applicants. 
They  surely  don't  know  —  they  don't  know." 

Presently  a  young  girl,  an  employee  of  the 
office,  came  to  Cram's  desk  and  said  a  few  words 
to  him.  His  face  lit  up  and  became  human,  his 
voice  sounded  sweet,  and  there  was  so  much  af- 
fection in  the  look  he  gave  her  that  I  was  aston- 
ished. I  had  just  thought  of  him  as  a  brute.  He 
had  just  behaved  so  to  the  old  man.  But  as  the 
rays  of  the  sun  from  the  little  window  fell  on 
them  both  it  lit  my  heart  with  hope.  "  He  is  too 
young  —  he  will  learn  the  truth  in  time,"  I 
thought. 

No  sooner  had  the  girl  gone  away  than  his 
face  again  took  on  a  stony  composure,  and  when 
he  again  called  out  the  name  of  an  applicant  his 
voice  was  again  harsh  and  cold  as  iron. 

"  Roll  —  Ida  Roll,  come  here." 

A  woman,  shabbily  dressed,  with  her  face  al- 
most covered  by  the  big  shawl  she  wore  over  her 
head  and  shoulders,  approached  the  desk.  Cram 
looked  at  her  for  a  few  seconds.  A  tremor 
passed  through  the  woman's  frame  at  his  scrutiny. 
She  bit  her  lips  and  nervously  rubbed  her  hands 
against  the  desk. 

"What's  your  name?" 


My  First  Impression  15 

"Ida  Rohl." 

Cram  made  a  little  mark  on  the  application. 

"  Where  do  you  live?  " 

"  Madison  Street  —  No. — " 

*'  Where  does  your  brother  live?  " 

"  I  have  no  brother." 

"  Where  does  your  sister  live?  " 

"  I  have  no  sister." 

"  How  much  does  your  oldest  son  earn  a 
week?  " 

"  My  oldest  son  is  only  thirteen  years  old." 

"  What's  the  name  of  your  husband?  " 

"  My  husband  is  dead." 

"When  did  he  die?" 

"  Four  years  ago." 

"  Did  you  marry  again?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Mind  you,"  he  warned  her,  "  we  are  going 
to  investigate  and  if  we  find  out  that  you  have 
married,"  and  he  shook  his  finger  in  her  face. 

"  How  many  children  have  you?  " 

"  Three  —  the  oldest  of  them  is  thirteen," 

"  And  how  did  you  live  till  now  without  ap- 
plying to  charity?  " 

"  I  worked  at  the  machine." 

"  Why  don't  you  work  now?  "  and  turning  to 
me  he  explained:  "You  see?  Four  years  she  has 
worked  and  supported  herself.     Now  some  one 


1 6  Crimes  of  Charity 

has  told  her  of  the  existence  of  the  charities,  so 
she  does  not  want  to  work  any  longer.  She 
thinks  she  has  a  good  case.  A  widow  —  three 
children  —  and,"  whispering  in  my  ears  in  a  con- 
fidential tone,  "  you'll  hear  her  say  soon  that  she 
is  sick  —  sick  —  that's  what  they  all  claim.  All 
are  sick."     Meanwhile  he  cleaned  his  pipe. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  answer?  Why  don't 
you  work  now  ?  Tell  me  —  did  you  get  tired  — 
or  do  you  think  begging  a  better  trade?  " 

"I   am  sick." 

Cram  glanced  at  me  as  though  to  say,  "  You 
see." 

"Sick?  and  what  is  your  disease?  Lazyo- 
mania?  " 

"  No,  I  am  sick,"  the  woman  said,  her  eyes 
swimming  with  tears. 

"  Sick  —  what  sickness  ?  " 

"  I  am  sick.  I  can't  tell  you  what  sickness. 
I  worked  at  pants  —  an  operator  —  and  now  I 
am  sick.  I  have  pains  all  over  and  I  can't  work. 
I  can't  —  I  won't  mind  it  for  me  —  but  my  chil- 
dren go  to  bed  without  supper  and  go  to  school 
without  breakfast.  And  I  can't  stand  it  —  I  can't 
—  I  never  applied  to  charities  — " 

"  Enough,  enough,"  Cram  interrupted.  "  Nev- 
er applied  to  charity!  I  know  that  gag.  You 
shouldn't  have  applied  now.  A  strong  woman 
like  you  should  be  ashamed  —  ashamed  to  come 


My  First  Impression  ly 

here  with  the  other  beggars,"  sweeping  his  hand 
towards  the  others.  "  Go  to  work.  You  won't 
get  a  cent  from  here." 

"  But  I  can't.     I  am  sick." 

"  Go  to  a  hospital  if  you  can't  work." 

"  And  my  children?  "  sobbed  the  poor  mother. 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  want?  A  pension 
of  $200  a  month,  a  trip  abroad,  a  palace,  a  coun- 
try house  ?  Say  —  say  quickly  what  do  you  want? 
I  have  no  time.  You  will  get  everything  imme- 
diately.    It's  a  fine  job,  Mr.  Baer,  is  it  not?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  helped  out  until  I  am  well  enough 
to  work.  My  children  are  hungry.  They  have 
had  no  breakfast  to-day  and  there  isn't  any  supper 
for  them  either." 

"  That's  the  real  stuff  —  her  children.  The 
more  kids,  the  easier  the  money.  I  tell  you,  some 
class  to  them,  my  friend." 

Cram  looked  at  her  and  then  at  the  application, 
and  after  a  moment's  thought  he  wrote  on  top  of 
it,  in  blue  pencil: 

"  To  be  investigated." 

"  Go  home,"  he  said  to  the  woman. 

"  But  Mr. " 

"  Go  home,  I  say.  We'll  take  care  of  it. 
That's  all,  don't  stay  here  any  longer,  don't  get 
me  angry." 

"  But  I  told  you  my  children  are  hungry  and 
cold—" 


1 8  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  I  am  not  a  groceryman  —  go  home.  I  have 
no  time.  There  are  others  —  also  sick  and  with 
dead  husbands  and  hungry  children.  Move  on 
—  good-day." 

"  But,  Mr.  —  to-night  my  children  have  no  sup- 
per and  it's  bitter  cold." 

"All  right.  We'll  take  care  of  that.  Go 
home."  And  as  the  woman  tried  to  speak  again: 
"  Now  go  home  and  don't  bother  me." 

Again  he  busied  himself  at  the  desk.  The 
woman  looked  at  him  and  then  at  me.  Big, 
heavy  tears  rolled  down  her  careworn  cheeks 
and  she  seemed  to  me  the  very  personification  of 
suffering,  the  suffering  of  a  mother  who  sees  her 
children  tortured  by  gnawing  hunger.  She  went 
away. 

"  Will  you  immediately  send  an  investigator?  " 
I  asked  Cram. 

"  In  four  or  five  days.  Our  investigators  are 
very  busy  now  and  it's  very  cold." 

"  Four  or  five  days!  "  I  was  amazed.  "  And 
meanwhile,  the  children  —  what  about  the  poor 
kids?" 

"  Oh,  well  —  it's  not  as  terrible  as  all  that. 
I  don't  believe  all  she  said,"  and  again  he  repeated 
his  favourite  sentence :  "  I  don't  take  any  stock 
in  her  story.     It's  all  a  fake  —  a  fake." 

Many  other  women  and  men  were  called,  but 


My  First  Impression  19 

I  did  not  see  or  hear  them.  These  two  were 
enough.  Only  the  harsh  and  grating  voice  of 
Cram  and  the  bitter  outcry  of  some  applicant 
awoke  me  from  my  stupor. 


THE  SECOND  DAY 

ON  returning  home  I  went  to  my  bed  with- 
out supper.  The  whole  night  through  I 
heard  Cram's  questions  and  the  answers 
of  the  poor  applicants,  and  the  whole  world  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  like  one  huge,  bleeding  wound. 
And  the  question  came  again  and  again  to  my 
mind:  "Was  charity,  organised  charity,  the 
salve  to  heal  this  wound?  " 

I  decided  during  the  night  not  to  accept  my 
new  job,  but  on  the  following  morning  I  recon- 
sidered the  matter  and  went  to  work.  "  I  will 
try  to  have  this  man  Cram  discharged,"  I  prom- 
ised myself.  "  I  will  speak  to  the  Manager 
about  the  investigator's  brutality.  He  is  too  busy 
upstairs.  He  evidently  trusts  the  man  and  thinks 
that  every  one  is  treated  kindly,  humanely."  And 
I  explained  to  myself  that  the  reason  Cram  was 
so  cruel,  though  so  young,  was  because  of  a  few 
impostors  who  tried  or  succeeded  in  filching  a  few 
dollars  from  the  charities.  What  they  had  to  do 
was  to  remove  him,  as  he  was  unfit  for  his  office. 
It  was  the  place  for  a  woman,  a  big-hearted,  kind 
old  woman,  who  has  seen  much  of  life,  who  has 

so 


The  Second  Day  21 

herself  perhaps  at  some  time  in  her  life  been  on 
the  brink  of  misery,  even  compelled  to  apply  her- 
self to  charities,  and  who  would  therefore  under- 
stand the  eyes  full  of  tears,  the  quivering  lips,  the 
cry  of  the  mother  for  her  unfed  children.  Yes 
—  a  woman,  a  noble  woman,  instead  of  Cram,  and 
everything  would  be  all  right,  and  as  I  walked  to- 
wards the  office  I  reviewed  mentally  all  my  ac- 
quaintances of  the  other  sex,  trying  to  place  the 
one  fit  for  the  job.  None  was  good  enough,  ex- 
cept one  who  would  not  accept  it,  my  dear  Joanna, 
with  her  silvery  hair  and  the  kind  big,  blue  eyes. 
She  had  told  me  of  her  work  in  the  Hull  House 
in  Chicago  and  with  other  charitable  organisa- 
tions in  Boston  and  elsewhere. 

"  Friend,"  she  often  said,  "  it's  no  place  for  a 
human  being.  You  see  too  much  misery,  too  much 
pretence,  too  much  darkness."  And  only  a  few 
days  before  when  I  told  her  about  my  future  po- 
sition she  had  advised  me  not  to  take  it. 

"  It  will  embitter  you  or  It  will  ruin  your  soul. 
A  body  that  has  worked  in  such  a  place  two  years 
should  be  backed  against  a  wall  and  shot  in  mercy, 
because  they  are  disabled  for  life  to  feel  humanly." 

Still  thinking  of  her  words  I  entered  the  door 
of  the  Institution. 

The  doorkeeper  asked  me  where  I  was  going. 
"  To  the  office,"  I  explained,  trying  to  pass,  but 


22  Crimes  of  Charity 

he  was  in  my  way.  He  insolently  put  his  hands 
on  my  shoulders.  "  Say  —  you  —  where  are  you 
hurrying?     Wait  here." 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Lawson,"  said  I,  trying  to 
pass. 

*'  You  can't  see  no  one;  go  in  the  other  room 
and  write  your  application." 

I  shivered  at  the  thought  of  the  basement  and 
almost  forgot  that  I  was  an  employee  of  the  in- 
stitution, when  I  saw  Cram  enter  the  door. 

He  came  up,  saluted  me  and  told  the  man  that  it 
was  "  all  right,"  that  I  was  a  new  employee. 
The  doorkeeper  touched  his  cap  in  respect  and 
retreated,  excusing  himself  with  the  words,  "  I 
thought  it  was  an  applicant."  How  horrible  this 
word  sounded  to  me. 

"  Did  you  announce  yourself  to  Mr.  Lawson?  " 
Cram  asked.  "  Not  yet,"  was  my  answer. 
"  You'd  better  announce  yourself  to  him,"  Cram 
advised.  "  Soon  the  applicants  will  come.  We'll 
have  a  busy  day.  It's  bitterly  cold  outside  and 
on  such  days  they  come,  oh!  they  come,  they 
won't  give  you  any  peace,  these  scoundrels.  We 
can't  complain  of  lack  of  customers,"  he  laughed, 
tapping  my  shoulder  familiarly.  "  Say,  Mr. 
Baer,"  he  sniggered,  "  I'm  supposed  to  be  a  *  red 
hot  Socialist,'  but  I  must  confess  that  I  hate  the 
applicants.  I  hate  them  like  hell.  They  have 
no  manners;  they  never  go  when  you  tell  them. 


The  Second  Day  23 

They  sit  and  sit.  Oh!  I  hate  them  —  hate  them," 
and  he  grimaced  in  disgust. 

Cram  announced  me  to  Mr.  Lawson  and  I  was 
soon  called  into  the  office.  He  invited  me  to  sit 
down,  asked  me  about  my  former  occupations  and 
then  explained  my  work  to  me : 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  you  are  aware  of  the 
fact  that  we  send  out  investigators  to  investigate 
all  the  cases  that  we  get.  All  our  investigators 
are  women,  and  women  are  very  softhearted.  Be- 
sides this  we  know  that  most  of  their  information 
is  not  reliable,  because  they  get  the  information 
from  the  applicants  themselves,  from  their  neigh- 
bours or  their  relatives.  Now,  the  Information 
given  by  the  applicant  Is  worthless.  The  neigh- 
bour is  very  often  on  good  terms  with  the  ap- 
plicant, and  as  to  their  relatives,  they  always  give 
us  only  the  poor  ones,  they  never  give  us  the 
wealthy  ones.  Now  we  have  six  hundred  pen- 
sion cases;  six  hundred  people  that  get  relief  every 
month  for  their  rent  and  food.  We  want  these 
cases  to  be  re-Investigated;  the  Information  not 
to  come  from  the  applicant  or  neighbours  who 
know  that  you  are  an  Investigator  of  the  chari- 
ties. In  some  way  you  might  find  out  —  posing 
as  a  pedlar,  as  a  health  officer,  a  friend  of  the 
family,  or  any  other  way  you  want." 

"  So,"  I  interrupted,  "  what  you  want  is  a  de- 
tective," and  I  Intended  to  tell  him  that  I  was 


24  Crimes  of  Charity 

not  going  to  be  one,  but  he  quickly  assented. 
"  Yes,  we  want  you  to  be  a  detective.  You'll  do 
good  work.  We  have  a  limited  amount  of  money 
to  spend  and  if  some  people  get  a  pension  with- 
out exactly  needing  it  they  take  the  money  from 
another  family  that  is  really  starving  and  whom 
we  can't  help  at  all." 

This  struck  me  very  convincingly.  I  had  no 
more  scruples  and  I  decided  to  accept  the  job. 

"  We'll  give  you  five  names  and  addresses  and 
you'll  have  to  find  out  all  the  rest  yourself.  We 
want  to  know  everything  that  the  family  does; 
who  their  relatives  are  and  how  much  money 
comes  into  the  house.  None  of  the  investiga- 
tors should  know  anything  about  your  work  — 
keep  It  secret."  A  few  minutes  later  he  gave  me 
five  addresses,  and  wishing  me  "  good-luck,"  he 
escorted  me  to  the  door. 

Once  outside  I  thought  the  matter  over  again. 
I  seemed  to  be  stranded  in  a  treacherous  swamp 
in  which  I  was  sinking  deeper  and  deeper,  but  Mr. 
Lawson's  argument  that  those  who  did  not  need 
charity  were  taking  away  the  bread  of  the  needy 
appealed  very  strongly  to  me  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  go  ahead. 

Before  starting  on  my  work  I  entered  a  coffee 
house  on  the  lower  east  side  and  tried  to  warm 
myself  with  a  cup  of  coffee.  Several  times  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  send  the  addresses  back  with  my 


The  Second  Day  25 

resignation,  but  the  argument  that  the  impostor 
was  getting  money  which  should  go  to  the  needy 
was  convincing.  It  seemed  as  though  I  heard 
Mr.  Lawson  repeating  it  over  and  over  again. 
His  fine  blond  face  full  of  stern  pity.  Not  the 
sentimental  pity  that  lights  up  the  features  for 
a  moment,  but  the  pity  of  the  man  who  has  de- 
voted his  whole  life  to  helping  the  poor.  Cer- 
tainly Mr.  Lawson  has  no  other  reason.  He 
wants  to  repair  the  evils  of  our  present  system. 
He  cannot  cure,  he  cannot  eradicate  all  the  evil, 
but  to  lessen  the  suffering  of  the  poor  is  surely  a 
good  work.  And  Mr.  Rogers,  that  polite  gentle- 
man, the  Manager.  He  too  is  busy  all  day  help- 
ing the  poor.  Why  should  I  shirk  because  Cram 
was  not  of  the  right  stuff?  Thus  I  reasoned: 
"  He  is  not  the  whole  institution.  You  will  ex- 
plain to  the  gentlemen  and  they  will  discharge 
him."  I  was  soon  quiet  again  and  out  in  the 
street. 


AT  WORK 

THE  nearest  address  was  in  the  lower  part 
of  Madison  Street.  Mary  D ,  a 
widow.  The  house  was  one  of  the  typ- 
ically dirty  tenements  of  that  section.  As  I  en- 
tered the  hall  a  strong  odour  of  garlic  and  onions 
almost  suffocated  me.  I  rang  the  janitress'  bell. 
She  opened  the  door  and  as  soon  as  I  mentioned 
the  name  of  Mary  D.  she  knew  I  was  from  the 
charities,  for  she  immediately  began  to  tell  me 
that  the  D.'s  have  no  coal,  that  the  charities  have 
neglected  them,  that  the  woman  is  sick  and  the 
five  children,  the  oldest  of  whom  is  eleven  years 
old,  are  hungry  and  naked. 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,  I'm  not  from  the  chari- 
ties. I'm  a  sewing  machine  agent,"  I  lied,  ac- 
cording to  the  advice  of  Mr.  Lawson. 

"Oh!  a  new  agent?  Why,  she  has  just  paid 
$1  last  week  on  the  machine,"  and  with  changed 
attitude:  "What  do  you  bother  me  for?  Go 
upstairs  and  see  her  —  third  floor  back  left."  She 
re-entered  her  apartment.  I  walked  up  the  three 
floors.  At  the  door  I  stood  a  little  and  thought 
how  I  should  behave.     "  Who's  there?  "  a  voice 

26 


At  Work  27 

asked.  "  Sewing  machine  agent,"  I  answered, 
timidly. 

"Come  next  week  —  I  have  no  money,"  was 
the  reply.  "  Excuse  me.  I  can't  open  the  door 
for  you  now.     I  am  not  dressed,  Mr.  George." 

I  went  downstairs  and  in  the  hall  I  noted  down 
everything  that  the  janitress  had  told  me.  Five 
children,  no  coal,  no  food,  $11.50  rent,  and  so 
on. 

My  next  address  was  in  Henry  Street. 

It  was  one  of  the  coldest  days  of  the  winter  of 
191 1.  The  snow  was  knee-deep  and  the  icy  wind 
blew  at  a  terrific  speed.  The  house  where  I  had 
to  go  was  one  of  those  old,  decrepit  buildings, 
where  misery  lurks  and  peers  at  one  from  every 
door,  every  brick,  windowpane,  nail  and  knob. 
The  windows  were  covered  with  a  coat  of  ice. 
Some  broken  panes  were  stuffed  with  pillows  and 
rags.  On  the  ground  floor  was  a  grocery. 
"  They  surely  buy  their  provisions  here,"  I 
thought,  and  entered  the  store.  An  old  woman, 
the  storekeeper,  asked  me  what  I  wanted. 

"  Could  you  give  me  any  information  about  the 
family  S.,"  I  asked. 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  from  the 
Gerry  Society,  aren't  you?  " 

"Well?"  I  said  nonchalantly.  "What  of 
it?" 


28  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  Well  —  it's  all  a  lie,  that's  what  I  could  tell 
you.  The  poor  woman  does  her  best.  Why  I 
she  works  herself  to  death.  A  widow  with  three 
small  children  —  a  fine  woman,  a  good  mother, 
a  real  lady,  if  you  want  to  know.  But  her  neigh- 
bour, the  rag  pedlar's  wife,  is  jealous.  I  don't 
know  whyl  And  she  did  it.  Why  should  you 
take  away  the  children  from  a  mother?  She 
feeds  them  well.  The  children  haven't  good 
clothes  I  Well,  she  is  a  poor  woman  and  chil- 
dren are  children.  They  wear,  they  tear;  what 
can  she  do?  Buy  every  day  new  clothes?  A 
poor  widow  that  works  from  early  morning  till 
late  at  night  I " 

"What  is  the  name  of  the  rag  pedlar?"  I 
asked  the  woman. 

"  Goldberg,"  she  informed  me.  "  A  bad 
woman,  without  a  mother's  heart.  Don't  go  to 
her.  She'll  tell  you  a  lot  of  bad  things  about  the 
poor  widow.  Don't  go  to  her.  Mister.  Oh! 
that  such  beings  should  be  alive  at  all !  "  she  mut- 
tered in  Yiddish. 

"  I  have  to,"  I  assured  her,  and  after  inquir- 
ing the  floor  where  Mrs.  Goldberg  lived  I  walked 
up  the  three  flights.     I  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  came  the  answer.  Mrs.  Gold- 
berg opened  the  door,  and  as  I  entered  the  cheer- 
ful aspect  of  a  tidy  kitchen  and  the  singing  of  the 


At  Work  29 

boiling  pots  on  the  stove  greeted  me  invitingly. 
Mrs.  Goldberg  bade  me  enter  their  "  front  room," 
furnished  pretentiously.  I  sat  down  at  her  invi- 
tation, and  contrary  to  all  rules  on  such  occasions 
I  waited  for  her  to  start  the  discussion  —  I  hardly 
knew  what  to  say.  I  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 
Mrs.  Goldberg  immediately  asked  me  if  I  was  an 
agent  from  the  Gerry  Society. 

"  But  what  have  you  against  that  poor  woman? 
Why  do  you  want  her  children  taken  away?  Are 
you  not  a  mother?  Have  you  no  feeling?  What 
is  it?  Have  you  a  personal  grievance  against  the 
woman?  "  I  said  in  the  tone  to  invite  confidences. 

"  But  just  because  I  am  a  mother,"  she  snapped 
back  angrily,  her  eyes  flashing.  "  Come  here," 
she  said,  making  a  sign  for  me  to  follow  her.  I 
followed  her  into  a  third  room.  A  boy  of  about 
six  years  was  in  a  bed.  His  face  was  burning 
with  fever.  Around  his  neck  he  had  bandages, 
and  on  a  small  table  were  a  dozen  bottles  of  medi- 
cine. 

"  Well,  what  has  that  to  do  with  it?  "  I  queried. 

"  This  is  my  only  child,"  she  explained.  I  did 
not  understand  what  connection  there  was  between 
her  sick  child  and  the  desire  to  put  the  children 
of  the  other  mother  away.  I  told  her  so,  ener- 
getically, almost  insolently. 

**  You  see,"  she  explained,  "  her  children  are 


30  Crimes  of  Charity 

always  running  around  half  naked  and  barefooted, 
even  in  the  coldest  weather.  They  are  always 
sick,  but  she  does  not  care,  because  when  this  is 
so  she  runs  to  all  the  charitable  societies  and  gets 
help  and  medicine.  The  children  play  in  the  hall 
the  whole  day,  and  whenever  her  child  has  a  sore 
throat  three  or  four  other  children  catch  it.  Last 
year  two  children  caught  diphtheria  in  this 
house.  Both  children  died.  When  my  child  gets 
sick  /  have  to  pay  for  medicine  and  the  doctor 
and  everything.  If  she  can't  take  care  of  her 
children,  let  her  not  have  any  —  that's  all.  Each 
one  for  himself,"  she  added;  "  I  have  to  take  care 
of  my  children." 

"But,"  I  argued,  "are  you  not  a  mother? 
What  can  the  poor  woman  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Goldberg's  eyes  flashed,  and  with  the  as- 
surance well-fed  people  generally  have,  she  an- 
swered :  "  Oh !  never  mind !  I  would  know  how 
to  take  care  of  my  children  I  There  would  be  no 
charity  business  with  me.  Oh,  no!  I  assure 
you!" 

"  She  is  a  widow  with  small  children,"  I 
pleaded.     "  What  would  you  do  in  her  place?  " 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  I  would  do  something  — 
anything  —  everything.  My  child  will  always 
have  enough  to  eat  and  some  clothes,  as  long  as 
I  live,"  and  as  she  looked  at  the  sick  child  she 
rolled  up  her  sleeves  as  though  ready  to  start  a 


At  Work  31 

fight  against  the  whole  world  to  defend  her  child 
from  want  and  misery. 

I  departed,  first  assuring  Mrs.  Goldberg  that 
something  would  be  done  to  "  protect  her  child," 
and  went  up  another  flight  to  see  Mrs.  S. 

The  grocery  woman  had  probably  announced 
the  fact  that  the  "  Gerry  Society  man  "  was  in  the 
house,  for  as  I  passed  through  the  hall  many  a 
door  opened  and  closed.  Some  of  the  women 
eyed  me  as  though  I  were  a  murderer,  while  others 
looked  at  me  as  though  I  were  something  mys- 
terious —  a  man  who  had  the  power  of  parting 
children  from  the  mother.  My  position  was  not  a 
very  pleasant  one.  I  thought  of  what  I  should 
do  if  the  real  "  Gerry  Society  man  "  were  to  ap- 
pear on  the  scene.  I  hastened  towards  Mrs.  S.'s 
door.  A  few  old  women  followed  behind  me. 
I  knocked.  A  timid  "  Come  in."  As  I  opened 
the  door  I  saw  two  small  children,  one  probably 
six  and  the  other  four  years  old,  hiding  under  the 
table.  My  heart  contracted.  Mrs.  S.  stood  in 
front  of  the  table,  hiding  the  children,  her  open 
hands  like  the  claws  of  a  tigress,  ready  to  defend 
her  offspring.  We  looked  at  one  another, 
mutely,  for  a  few  moments.  Her  eyes  were 
sparkling  with  the  fire  of  an  injured  animal,  her 
hair  was  dishevelled,  her  brows  were  knit  together 
in  a  supreme  decision,  her  mouth  twitched,  and  she 
was  pale,  pale  as  a  waxen  figure.     From  under 


32  Crimes  of  Charity 

the  table  the  two  children  looked  at  me  fearfully. 

"  Are  you  Mrs.  S.?  "  I  finally  stammered  out, 
while  I  took  out  my  notebook. 

No  answer. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  S.?"  I  repeated  again,  as  I 
regained  my  composure. 

"  Don't  take  away  my  children,  Mister.  Don't 
take  away  my  children,"  the  poor  mother  yelled 
and  growing  hysterical  she  repeated  this  terrible 
cry  in  heartrending  tones,  tearing  her  hair. 
"  Don't  take  them  away." 

The  poor  tots  came  out  from  under  the  table. 
Quickly  she  pushed  them  back,  and  continued  to 
cry  at  the  top  of  her  voice  the  same  sentence: 
*'  Don't  take  away  my  children.  They  are  mine, 
mine.     My  God,  they  are  mine." 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  your  children  away, 
madam,"  I  told  her  repeatedly.  "  Calm  your- 
self, I  did  not  come  to  take  them  away."  But 
she  did  not  listen  to  me.  She  kept  on  crying  and 
tearing  her  hair.  Neighbours  came  in  from  all 
sides. 

"Help,  help,"  Mrs.  S.  cried.  "Help,  help, 
mothers  I  He  wants  to  take  away  my  children. 
Help,  help  I  "  and  she  ran  to  the  window. 

I  gently  laid  my  hands  on  the  hysterical  moth- 
er's shoulders,  and  looking  straight  in  her  eyes  I 
said  slowly  and  distinctly : 

"I  —  don't  — r  want  —  to  —  take  —  your  chil- 


At  Work  33 

dren.  Be  quiet,"  I  begged.  Among  the  neigh- 
bours was  also  the  grocery  woman. 

"  He  wouldn't  take  away  your  children.  This 
gentleman  comes  to  speak  with  you.  Calm  your- 
self, Mrs.  S.,  calm  yourself,"  and  softly,  in  Yid- 
dish, she  blasphemed  Mrs.  Goldberg  and  her  hus- 
band, father  and  child. 

After  a  few  moments,  during  which  the  grocery 
woman  spoke  to  her  in  soothing  tones,  Mrs.  S. 
quieted  down  a  little.  A  reaction  set  in.  Thick 
beads  of  cold  sweat  appeared  on  her  brows,  while 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  a  sickly  red.  She  asked 
for  a  glass  of  water  and  sat  down.  To  express 
how  I  felt  all  this  time  is  more  than  I  can  do.  I 
only  know  that  I  went  through  some  faint  reflec- 
tion of  all  the  emotions  that  agitated  the  poor 
woman.  I  sat  down  opposite  to  her  and  tried 
to  soothe  her.  She  could  not  look  me  in  the  face. 
As  I  spoke  her  eyes  caressed  the  two  little  chil- 
dren, who,  during  the  excitement,  had  come  out 
from  their  hiding  place.  They  went  to  their 
mother.  She  placed  them  one  on  each  side  of 
her  and  passed  her  arms  around  their  necks,  pre- 
senting to  me  one  of  the  strongest  pictures  of 
motherhood  that  I  had  ever  seen. 

"Well,  how  do  you  feel,  Mrs.  S.?"  I  broke 
the  silence. 

"  Just  a  minute,"  was  her  answer,  and  she  ran 
into  the  bedroom  from  where  I  heard  her  sob- 


34  Crimes  of  Charity 

bing.  I  took  advantage  of  her  absence  to  ask 
the  other  neighbours  to  go  out.  They  departed 
reluctantly  and  stood  outside.  I  tried  hard  to 
make  friends  with  the  children.  Not  even  my 
pennies  would  they  accept,  and  soon  they  went 
into  the  bedroom  with  their  mother  —  all  sobbing 
together.  I  looked  around  the  house.  The  stove 
was  cold.  The  wind  blew  in  from  a  broken  win- 
dow. A  few  crumbs  of  bread  were  on  the  table. 
A  few  broken  chairs,  a  big  clock,  out  of  order,  on 
the  mantelpiece,  a  picture  of  a  man  of  about  thirty 
years  old  in  the  centre  of  a  wall,  this  constituted 
most  of  the  furniture.  The  whole  house  was  in 
a  state  of  complete  disorder,  with  not  even  an 
attempt  at  cleanliness.  Through  the  open  door 
of  the  bedroom  I  saw  two  folding  beds  and  the 
torn  mattresses  shed  their  straw  all  around  the 
house.  I  felt  very  uneasy  and  wished  to  cut  short 
my  visit,  but  hardly  knew  how  to  back  out  of  my 
position, 

"  Mrs.  S.,"  I  called,  "  won't  you  please  come 
out  and  talk  matters  over  with  me?  I  am  pressed 
for  time.  It's  one  o'clock  and  I  have  other  work 
to  do." 

The  woman  re-entered  the  kitchen,  followed  by 
the  children.  She  had  arranged  her  hair,  put  on 
shoes  and  buttoned  her  torn  waist. 

"  Sit  down,"  I  urged.     She  did  so. 

"  Now,"   I  started,   "  what's  the  matter  with 


At  Work  35 

your  children?  Why  are  they  walking  naked? 
It  is  a  very  cold  day  and  they  are  liable  to  fall 
sick." 

"  I  am  a  poor  widow,"  she  started  plaintively, 
"  what  can  I  do?" 

"But  listen  here,"  I  said,  "this  does  not  go  I 
The  children  must  be  properly  clad." 

The  woman  looked  me  in  the  eyes  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  asked  me : 
"  Are  you  a  Jew?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  but  what  has  that  to  do  with 
it?" 

She  evidently  heard  only  my  acknowledgment 
that  I  was  a  Jew,  and  with  the  feeling  that  I  was 
her  brother  she  gained  confidence  that  I  would  not 
take  her  children  away  from  her. 

"  If  you  are  a  Jew,"  she  continued,  "  you  will 
not  take  my  children  away,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
whole  truth." 

"  Go  ahead,"  I  encouraged  her,  and  she  told 
me  the  following : 

"  Since  my  husband  died  three  years  ago,  the 
charities  have  given  me  two  dollars  a  week  and 
paid  my  rent.  Every  year,  in  the  winter,  they  have 
sent  me  coal  and  clothing  for  the  children.  This 
year  they  have  a  new  Investigator  and  she  does 
not  like  me." 

"  The  investigator  does  not  like  you  ?  "  I  re- 
peated.    "Why?" 


36  Crimes  of  Charity 

The  woman  looked  away  for  a  few  moments, 
then  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said :  "  I 
don't  know  why.  She  does  not  like  me  and  that's 
all,  so  they  sent  me  only  a  half  ton  of  coal  at  the 
beginning  of  the  winter  and  no  clothes  for  the 
children.  Every  day  I  went  to  the  office  and 
asked  and  begged  for  coal  and  clothes,  but  the  in- 
vestigator does  not  like  me  —  she  does  not  like 
me  —  and  she  works  against  me.  So  what  could 
I  do?  To  go  and  buy  shoes  and  coal  I  need 
money,  and  I  haven't  any.  From  the  two  dollars 
a  week  I  get  we  hardly  have  enough  for  bread 
—  dry  bread."  And  as  the  poor  woman  pro- 
nounced the  last  word  the  smallest  of  the  children 
repeated  it  in  tones  that  would  have  melted  a 
heart  of  stone.  His  hungry  eyes  appealed  to  the 
mother  for  the  staff  of  life.  "  Bread,"  the  older 
child  repeated.  "  Mamma,  give  me  bread.  I 
am  hungry  —  give  me  bread." 

The  mother  cried.  The  children  were  still  ask- 
ing for  bread  and  the  mother  was  still  crying 
when  a  young  lady,  whom  I  recognised  as  an  in- 
vestigator from  the  charities,  entered  without  even 
knocking  at  the  door.  Mrs.  S.  jumped  up  from 
her  chair,  very  confused. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  the  investigator  asked 
without  even  a  greeting  as  she  entered.  The 
woman  did  not  know  what  to  do,  what  to  an- 
swer. 


At  Work  37 

"Who  are  you?"  the  investigator  questioned 
me  insolently. 

"  By  what  right  do  you  ask  me  that?  "  I  re- 
plied.    "  I  haven't  asked  you  who  you  are." 

"  Well,  I  have  a  right  to  ask,"  and  turning  to 
the  woman,  she  said :  "  You  must  tell  me  im- 
mediately who  this  man  is  —  do  you  hear?  Who 
is  he  ?  or  no  coal,  no  money,  no  rent  —  do  you 
hear?  "  She  yelled  all  this,  shaking  her  jewelled 
finger  in  the  woman's  face.  I  would  have  liked 
to  have  seen  how  far  she  would  have  gone,  but 
the  eyes  of  the  poor  mother  were  so  appealing, 
so  full  of  despair,  I  went  up  to  the  investigator 
and  showed  her  a  paper  with  the  heading  of  the 
institution. 

"  So,  you  are  it!  " 

"  Not  a  word,"  I  said. 

"  It's  all  right."  She  turned  to  Mrs.  S.  "  I 
know  who  he  is.  It's  all  right.  Any  coal  left? 
No,  well,  you'll  get  your  coal  to-morrow." 

"  And  shoes?  "  begged  the  woman. 

"  Bread,  mamma,"  both  children  said  at  once, 
"  ask  her  for  bread,  mamma." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  well-fed  investiga- 
tor. "  Oh,  these  beggars !  these  beggars !  "  she 
repeated.  "Are  you  coming  down  soon?"  she 
asked  me,  and  without  bidding  Mrs.  S.  good-bye 
she  went  out,  saying,  "  I'll  wait  for  you  down- 
r  stairs.     I'll  have  to  talk  matters  over  with  you." 


38  Crimes  of  Charity 

I  assured  Mrs.  S.  that  I  would  do  all  in  my 
power  to  prevent  her  children  being  taken  from 
her,  and  I  was  soon  downstairs,  where  I  found 
Miss  Alten  waiting.  We  walked  some  distance 
together  without  speaking  a  word  —  just  eyeing 
one  another.  We  passed  a  lunch  room.  I  asked 
her  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  feeling  sure  she  would 
refuse.  To  my  great  astonishment  she  accepted, 
and  soon  we  were  sitting  at  a  table  with  the 
steaming  coffee  before  us.  The  pleasant  warmth 
of  the  place  and  the  steam  from  the  cups  soon 
melted  the  ice.  She  was  a  handsome  dark  girl 
of  about  twenty,  of  Jewish-Russian  descent.  She 
had  a  pleasant  voice,  yet  how  harsh  and  cold  was 
her  speech  awhile  ago,  exactly  the  same  voice  as 
Cram's.  I  wondered  then!  not  nowl  After- 
ward I  learned  that  this  was  the  professional  tone, 
the  intimidating  note,  as  Cram  called  it. 

"  Why  did  you  leave  Mrs.  S.,  that  poor  woman, 
without  coal?  "  I  asked.  "  It's  so  very  cold  and 
you  know  she  has  no  money  to  buy  any  I  " 

"  Oh!  she's  a  pest,"  Miss  Alten  replied,  making 
a  grimace  that  passed  like  an  ugly  cloud  of  hatred 
over  her  young  face.  "  That  was  to  punish  her, 
to  show  her  that  she  must  not  disregard  my  au- 
thority," she  continued.  "  Last  month  she  fin- 
ished the  coal.  When  I  came  to  see  her  she  told 
me  the  story,  and  I  told  her  she  would  get  it  next 
week.     Instead  of  waiting,  what  do  you  think  she 


At  Work  39 

did?  She  came  up  to  the  office  to  beg.  So!  I 
thought,  you  come  to  the  office.  Wait  I  you'll 
wait  a  month  before  you  get  any  at  all.  And 
that  is  why  it  happened.  To  show  her  that  I  am 
the  boss.  We  have  to  have  some  means  of  keep- 
ing them  in  order,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  not  fair  to  punish  her.  And  for 
what?  She  felt  cold,  so  did  the  children,  and 
she's  a  mother.  She  was  afraid  of  sickness  for 
them.  Why,  great  God,  they  could  have  died." 
Miss  Alten  laughed  at  me  long  and  scornfully. 

"Die,  die?  Her  children  die?  They  never 
die.  They  never  die.  Their  children  never  die, 
these  beggars." 

The  coffee  was  finished.  Miss  Alten  buttoned 
her  coat,  put  on  her  gloves,  and  saying  good-bye 
she  quickly  disappeared  from  the  table.  I  sat 
more  than  an  hour,  drinking  one  cup  of  coffee 
after  another.  I  wanted  to  think  but  my  mind 
was  in  confusion.  *'  They  never  die.  They 
never  die,"  rang  in  my  ears.  And  to  think  that 
the  wages  of  these  women  investigators  are  sel- 
dom higher  than  ten  dollars  per  week,  and  that  if 
somebody  did  not  help  them  out,  a  brother,  a  sis- 
ter, or  father,  they  themselves  would  be  depend- 
ing on  charity,  or  — 

"  I'll  have  her  discharged,  too,"  I  finally  de- 
cided, and  with  this  determination  I  went  out  again 
into  the  street. 


4jO  Crimes  of  Charity 

Aimlessly  I  walked  through  the  slums.  I  had 
never  taken  so  much  interest  in  every  minute  de- 
tail of  the  street  as  I  did  at  that  time.  Every 
house,  every  window,  every  door  meant  some- 
thing, said  something.  Tales  of  untold  misery 
and  despair  and  shame.  I  looked  at  the  clothes 
of  all  the  children  and  tried  to  guess,  figure  out, 
which  one's  mother  was  an  applicant  and  which 
was  not.  Unconsciously  I  had  divided  the  world 
into  two  classes  —  one  that  applies  to  charity  and 
one  that  does  not. 

Then  I  made  up  my  mind  that  Miss  Alten  was 
a  relative,  perhaps  a  sister,  of  Cram's,  and  I  felt 
sorry  that  I  had  not  asked  her  about  it.  In  our 
discussion  his  name  had  been  mentioned  several 
times,  and  she  had  always  affirmed  that  "  he  was 
the  finest  gentleman  and  the  best  investigator  of 
the  whole  bunch." 

How  curious!  Two  such  cruel  beings  in  one 
charitable  institution!     I  wondered. 

My  next  case  proved  a  very  interesting  one. 
It  was  in  Monroe  Street,  on  the  fifth  floor  of  a 
yard-house  —  Mrs.  Miriam  D. 

As  nobody  around  the  neighbourhood  wanted 
to  tell  me  anything  beyond  the  fact  that  Mrs.  D. 
was  a  very  honest  women,  I  went  up  to  the  ap- 
plicant at  once.  The  mother  was  not  at  home: 
only  her  three  children,  a  girl  of  twelve,  another 


At  Work  41 

one  of  ten  and  a  boy  of  seven  years  old  were  in 
the  house.  They  sat,  all  three,  around  a  table, 
and  worked  at  their  lessons.  The  kitchen  was 
very  clean  and  warm.  The  children  were  tidy, 
and  everything  was  in  order.  But  the  poor  girls 
were  as  pale  as  death.  A  single  glance  was 
enough  to  know  that  they  were  starved  out.  Only 
in  their  big,  moist,  Jewish  eyes  was  there  life.  I 
asked  the  children  where  the  mother  was.  "  We 
don't  know,"  was  the  response  of  all  three,  and 
they  looked  at  one  another  as  though  to  say,  "  I 
wish  she  were  here." 

From  my  talk  with  the  children  I  learned  that 
they  were  expecting  a  cousin  by  the  name  of  Leb 
from  the  old  country,  so  I  decided  to  impersonate 
an  agent  of  Ellis  Island  and  get  all  the  informa- 
tion I  wanted  in  that  way.  I  asked  the  girls  how 
they  were  living;  whether  they  had  things  to  eat 
every  day. 

"  Yep,"  the  boy  of  seven  said,  with  pride. 
"  But  not  enough,"  added  the  oldest  sister. 

"  From  where  does  your  mother  get  money  to 
buy  food?  "  I  queried. 

"  From  the  Charities,"  the  second  girl  ex- 
plained, while  the  older  sister  kicked  her  in  the 
shins  as  punishment  for  her  frankness. 

"  Have  you  no  relatives?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  have,"  all  three  again  answered. 

"Who  are  they?" 


42  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  Louis  Goldman,  Uncle  Louis,"  she  explained. 

"  What  is  your  uncle  ?  " 

"  A  shoemaker." 

"And  who  else?" 

"  Uncle  Marcus." 

"And  what  is  he?" 

"A  bum,"  the  little  boy  put  in.  "A  bum, 
that's  what  he  is."  I  had  a  hard  time  to  get  him 
out  of  his  sister's  hands.  They  were  still  trying 
to  kick  him  when  the  mother  came  in. 

Mrs.  D.  remained  at  the  door  in  surprise,  evi- 
dently wondering  who  I  was. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  she  questioned. 

I  was  taken  by  surprise,  but  I  immediately  re- 
membered the  children's  talk  about  a  cousin  from 
the  old  country  and  I  said  that  I  was  an  agent  from 
Ellis  Island. 

"  Why  I  "  the  woman  cried  out,  in  ecstasy,  "  is 
he  here?  Oh  I  children  your  cousin  Is  here  I" 
And  she  kissed  them  all  in  an  outburst  of  happi- 
ness.    "  Is  he  here?     Tell  me." 

"Who  is  he?  "I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I'll  go  immediately  and  take  him  out. 
It's  my  cousin,  Leb  Herman  Rosen,  my  own 
cousin." 

"  All  right,"  I  said.  "  You'll  have  to  give  me 
some  information  first." 

"What   Information?     It's   my   real   cousin." 

She  sat  down  ready  to  answer  my  questions. 


At  Work  43 

I  took  out  my  note  book  and  put  the  following 
questions : 

"  How  long  are  you  in  America?  " 

♦'  Eight  years." 

"  How  many  children  have  you?  " 

"  Three." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  your  husband  died?  " 

"  Four  years." 

"  Now,  if  you  want  to  take  your  cousin  in  your 
house  you  must  prove  that  you'll  be  able  to  sup- 
port him  until  he  gets  work,  and  show  enough 
money  to  assure  the  United  States  that  he  will 
not  become  a  public  charge.  How  do  you  make 
a  living?     How  much  are  you  earning  a  week?  " 

"I  —  I  —  I,"  she  stammered,  "  I  make  a 
living." 

"How?"  I  insisted. 

"  I  sell  whisky,  tea,  coffee,  powder,  tooth- 
paste." 

"  Well,  how  much  do  you  make  a  week?  " 

"  Well,  well,  I  make  a  living," 

"  But  to  keep  a  cousin  you  must  make  more  than 
a  living  —  more  than  you  need." 

*'  I  make  more,"  she  said.  "I  —  do  make 
more." 

As  I  knew  that  she  was  receiving  charity  I  did 
not  believe  her  and  told  her  she  would  have  to 
prove  that  she  made  more  than  she  needed.  She 
walked  up  to  a  chiffonier,  searched  a  drawer,  and 


44  Crimes  of  Charity 

to  my  great  astonishment  brought  forth  a  bank 
book  which  showed  that  she  had  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  dollars  accumulated  in  the  last  two  years. 

"  Will  that  prove  that  I  earn  more  than  I 
spend?  "  she  said  triumphantly. 

I  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  A  mother 
who  lets  her  children  starve  to  put  money  in  the 
bank  I  What  wild  animal  would  neglect  its  off- 
spring to  such  an  extent  I  I  called  her  into  the 
next  room  and  told  her  what  I  thought  of  her 
and  who  I  was.  She  cried  bitterly  under  my 
lashing,  and  then  told  me  the  following  story : 

"  I  should  not  tell  you  this,  but  as  you  think 
that  I  am  an  unnatural  mother  I  must  explain 
myself.  My  husband  died  four  years  ago.  He 
was  a  cloak  operator  and  earned  good  money 
when  I  married  him.  After  the  second  child  was 
born  his  wages  did  not  suffice  to  keep  us  as  well  as 
he  wished.  It  was  a  very  busy  season.  He  worked 
overtime  every  night,  until  one  and  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  When  the  season  ended  we  had 
three  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank.  But  soon  he 
got  sick.  Sbc  months  he  lay  sick  at  home.  When 
all  the  money  was  gone  we  had  to  send  him  to 
the  hospital.  A  month  later  he  died,  and  two 
months  after  his  death  I  gave  birth  to  the  third 
child.  While  I  lay  in  bed  there  was  nobody  to 
take  care  of  the  children  and  there  was  no  bread 
for  them  either.     A  neighbour  wrote  to  the  char- 


At  Work  45 

Itles  and  told  them  all  about  us,  and  our  plight. 
Two  days  passed.  A  woman  came,  looked 
around,  questioned  me  and  went  away.  They 
sent  a  nurse  and  money  to  feed  the  children. 
When  I  was  out  of  bed  they  called  me  to  the 
office  and  informed  me  that  they  had  decided  to 
give  me  two  dollars  a  week  and  pay  my  rent.  But, 
I  ask  you,  could  I  live  on  two  dollars  a  week? 
I  had  to  do  something.  I  went  out  washing  and 
scrubbing  floors.  I  got  sick.  The  charities  got 
to  know  that  I  worked.  They  immediately  in- 
formed me  that  if  I  worked  they  would  not  give 
me  anything.  What  could  I  do?  Live  on  the 
two  dollars?  That  was  an  impossibility.  Work? 
I  did  not  earn  enough  to  get  along  without  their 
support.  Little  by  little  I  began  to  sell  tea  and 
coffee  in  the  hours  when  the  children  were  in 
school.  But  the  investigator  was  informed  by 
the  grocer  and  butcher  that  I  spent  more  than 
two  dollars  a  week.  Again  I  was  called  to  the 
office.  They  questioned  me,  tortured  me,  accused 
me  of  being  a  bad  woman.  Where  did  I  get 
the  money?  In  despair  I  lied  to  them.  Told 
them  that  the  grocer  and  butcher  had  given  wrong 
information,  that  they  did  not  know;  they  had 
no  proof  and  had  to  give  me  the  pension. 

"  Still  I  could  not  get  along  on  their  money. 
My  children  were  hungry.  I  was  hungry.  I 
went  out  again  and  sold  tea  and  coffee  and  whisky, 


46  Crimes  of  Charity 

and  under  my  coat  I  would  bring  an  additional 
piece  of  meat  and  bread.  Soon  the  neighbours 
knew  that  we  had  meat  every  day  and  some  of 
them  told  the  investigator.  By  this  time  she  had 
made  it  a  habit  to  spy  on  my  every  move.  She 
reported  me  to  the  office.  Again  I  was  called 
and  questioned  and  again  I  lied  and  cried.  I 
could  not  get  along  on  their  two  dollars  a  week 
and  could  not  get  along  on  my  work  alone.  But 
when  I  got  home  I  was  wiser,  and  since  then, 
instead  of  buying  bread  and  meat,  I  have  to  put 
the  money  in  the  bank.  This  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  dollars  is  the  meat  and  bread  of  my 
children,  their  health  and  their  life.  Yes,  I  am 
a  bad  mother.  I  am  a  bad  mother,"  and  wept 
anew. 

The  next  day  I  went  to  the  office  and  gave  a 
report  of  my  work.  The  case  of  Miriam  D.  I 
reported  more  extensively  than  the  others,  insist- 
ing that  the  children  were  starved  while  the 
woman  had  one  hundred  and  thirty-five  dollars 
in  the  bank,  accumulated  not  from  surplus  but 
from  what  she  was  forced  to  deprive  her  children 
of.  Mr.  Lawson  immediately  called  in  the  Man- 
ager and  showed  him  my  report.  They  congrat- 
ulated me  on  my  ability  and  I  felt  that  they  would 
tell  their  investigators  that  they  must  not  persecute 
the   woman   and  the   orphans   by  spying.     The 


At  Work  47 

Manager  pronounced  me  a  second  Sherlock 
Holmes  and  announced  that  Mrs.  D.'s  pension 
would  be  cut  off. 

I  was  dumfounded.  So  this  was  the  result 
of  my  work  I  To  take  the  bread  out  of  the  mouths 
of  the  three  orphans.  I  accused  myself  of  stu- 
pidity and  could  look  no  one  straight  in  the  face. 
Through  treachery  I  learned  the  truth,  and  in- 
stead of  using  it  for  her  good  I  had  used  it  to 
help  the  investigators  be  more  cruel,  more  ques- 
tioning than  before.  What  could  the  woman  do? 
Had  she  not  told  me  that  she  could  not  live  on 
what  she  earned?  Was  the  one  hundred  and 
thirty-five  dollars  enough  for  her  to  support  her 
children?  And  I  imagined  them  all  starved  and 
sick,  dying  in  hospitals.  All  through  my  fault. 
I  should  have  known  that  they  would  not  reform 
their  investigating  system  because  of  my  report. 
How  I  hated  myself.  How  I  hated  the  whole 
world.  At  night  when  I  went  home  I  was 
ashamed  to  kiss  my  children,  for  I  had  commit- 
ted a  crime.  As  I  thought  of  the  inscriptions  on 
the  doors :  "  For  the  poor  of  the  land  shall  never 
cease ;"  "  Let  thy  hand  give  freely  to  the  needy," 
etc.,  I  remembered  Dante's  "  Lasciate  ogni  sper- 
anza  voi  ch'  entrate." 

In  disgust  and  despair  I  walked  the  streets  the 
next  day  without  being  able  to  do  anything.  Like 
a  criminal  who  returns  to  the  scene  of  his  crime 


48  Crimes  of  Charity 

I  walked  around  the  house.  I  felt  a  strong  call 
to  go  in  and  beg  forgiveness  for  her  undoing. 
I  have  since  learned  that  it  has  not  done  any 
harm.  On  the  contrary,  deserted  by  the  chari" 
ties  the  woman  redoubled  her  energies.  The 
cousin  she  was  waiting  for  arrived  a  few  days 
later,  bringing  some  money  with  him.  They 
bought  a  grocery  store  and  she  is  earning  her 
living.  But  at  that  moment  I  thought  myself 
guilty  of  the  greatest  crime.  I  made  many  de- 
cisions, but  stuck  to  the  last,  namely,  to  take 
notes  of  all  the  evil  that  organised  charity  was 
doing  and  at  the  first  opportunity  give  them  out 
for  the  benefit  of  the  world. 

I  understood  that  the  welfare  of  the  poor  did 
not  concern  the  men  at  the  head  of  the  charity 
organisation;  that  it  has  become  a  business  for 
them.  A  business  they  were  managing,  just  as 
others  manage  factories.  Their  concern  was  to 
reduce  the  cost,  to  economise,  just  as  the  manu- 
facturers try  to  produce  the  greatest  amount  of 
product  with  the  smallest  amount  of  outlay.  And 
if  hunger,  starvation,  sickness  was  the  by-product, 
well,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  poor. 


WATCH  THEIR  MAIL 

ONE   morning  I   received  the   following 
order: 
"  Investigate   Sokol,    Monroe    Street, 
No. .     Night  visit  preferable." 

When  I  asked  the  Manager  what  he  meant  by 
night  visit  he  told  me  between  ten  and  eleven 
o'clock.  Accordingly,  at  ten  P.  M.  I  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  above  named  family.  In  the 
few  minutes  that  elapsed  between  the  knocking 
and  the  opening  of  the  door  I  heard  a  man  groan- 
ing —  as  men  groan  under  excruciating  pain. 

The  woman,  Mrs.  Sokol,  opened  the  door  for 
me,  and  inquired  who  I  was.  I  was  instructed 
by  the  office  not  to  tell  them  my  identity  under 
any  circumstances.  So  I  said  I  was  from  the 
Board  of  Health  —  that  neighbours  had  claimed 
that  they  could  not  sleep  on  account  of  the  man's 
groans,  and  I  told  Mrs.  Sokol  that  we  would  have 
to  see  him  and  send  him  to  a  hospital.  I  entered 
the  apartment.  There  were  two  rooms.  In  one 
room  was  the  bed  with  the  sick  man  in  it.  The 
other  room  was  the  kitchen,  dining  and  reception 
room.     A  cold  stove,  a  table,   four  chairs,  and 

49 


50  Crimes  of  Charity 

on  one  side  two  more  folding  beds.  This  was 
the  furniture. 

The  man  kept  groaning.  His  wife  whispered 
to  him  to  keep  still,  but  his  pains  were  probably 
so  great  that  he  could  not  understand  what  she 
said.  I  lit  the  gas  and  approached  the  bed.  A 
strong  odour  of  putrefaction  compelled  me  to  with- 
draw, and  the  next  moment  the  wife  told  me  that 
he  had  a  cancer,  that  he  had  been  operated  upon 
several  times  without  success  and  that  he  now 
suffered  the  most  excruciating  pains;  that  the 
doctor  came  only  once  in  two  days,  only  to  have 
a  look — "to  see  if  he  is  already  dead,"  as  she 
put  it. 

"  Why  don't  you  send  him  to  the  Skin  and 
Cancer  Hospital?"  I  asked. 

"  We  are  only  two  years  in  this  country,"  was 
the  woman's  reply,  "  and  they  will  send  us  back  to 
Russia." 

"  And  the  Jewish  hospital?  "  I  suggested. 

"  He  has  been  there  twice  —  they  operated  on 
him." 

"  Well,  well,"  I  urged,  "  why  does  he  not  stay 
there?" 

The  man  groaned,  the  woman  cried,  some  sick 
child  in  the  neighbourhood  woke  with  the  noise 
and  mixed  his  sickly  crying  with  theirs  and  the 
moaning  of  the  wind  outside.  It  was  a  pitiful 
scene.     I  started  my  interrogation. 


Watch  Their  Mail  51 

The  man  was  a  musician,  a  fiddler.  He  was 
not  a  member  of  the  Union.  He  had  been  in 
America  two  years,  and  sick  from  the  first  moment 
he  had  come.  "  And  how  do  you  get  along?  " 
I  asked.  "  From  where  do  you  get  money  for 
bread? "  Again  the  woman  cried.  Soon  the 
man  fell  asleep.  I  heard  his  heavy  breathing 
and  felt  the  odour  of  putrefaction  emanating 
from  his  body.  Pitilessly  I  insisted  on  getting 
an  answer  to  my  question :  "  From  what  do  you 
live?" 

"  There  was  not  a  piece  of  bread  in  the  house 
to-day,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Yes,  but  where  did  you  get  yesterday's 
bread?" 

"  We  had  no  coals  for  the  last  four  days." 

"  But  from  where  did  you  get  it  before  that?  " 
I  argued. 

"  From  —  from  —  from  the  charity,"  the 
woman  broke  down  hysterically. 

The  two  folding  beds  in  the  kitchen  attracted 
my  attention  and  I  asked  her  whether  she  had 
any  boarders.  This  was  the  touchstone  of  her 
suffering.  We  drew  our  chairs  away  as  far  as 
possible  from  the  sick  bed  and  there  she  told  me. 

*'  These  are  not  boarders'  beds.  They  are  the 
beds  of  my  two  daughters.  Amy  eighteen  years 
old  and  Leah  twenty  —  two  daughters  have  I, 
like  two  flowers.     Envied  by  the  whole  world.     I 


52  Crimes  of  Charity 

was  the  proudest  mother.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  the 
whole  story. 

"  Two  years  ago  we,  my  husband,  myself  and 
the  two  daughters,  arrived  here  from  Warsaw. 
My  husband  was  a  healthy,  strong  man.  My 
daughters  were  dressmakers.  We  had  a  little 
money.  We  rented  these  same  two  rooms  and 
a  few  days  afterward,  through  the  influence  of 
friends,  both  children  found  work  at  their  trade. 
Only  my  husband  remained  idle.  They  did  not 
want  to  take  him  into  the  Union.  A  few  weeks  he 
walked  around  without  work,  then  he  went  to  a 
leather  finding  factory  where  he  had  to  cut  out 
pieces  of  leather.  It  was  piecework.  They 
worked  in  a  cellar,  sixteen  or  eighteen  hours  a 
day.  At  the  end  of  the  week  he  had  two  dollars. 
It  was  very  hard  on  him.  He  had  never  done 
physical  work,  still  he  returned  there  the  next 
week,  hoping  that  he  would  do  better,  having  a 
week's  experience.  He  went  away  at  five  in  the 
morning  and  returned  at  eleven  at  night,  yet  he 
could  not  make  more  than  forty  cents  a  day. 

"  His  daughters  made  the  first  week  six  dol- 
lars each,  working  nine  hours  a  day,  and  he,  the 
father,  working  twice  as  hard  and  twice  as  many 
hours  made  two  dollars  a  week.  He  took  sick. 
We  called  the  doctor.  He  gave  a  potion  and 
left.     My  husband  got  worse  and  worse  every 


Watch  Their  Mail  53 

day.  We  went  to  a  hospital.  There  it  was 
found  that  he  had  cancer,  and  must  be  operated 
on.  But  just  as  we  were  ready  to  go  and  do 
it  we  found  out  that  there  is  a  law  that  we  had 
no  right  to  use  a  public  hospital  before  we  have 
been  here  five  years.  We  applied  to  the  Jewish 
hospital.     My  husband  was  operated  upon. 

"  My  daughters  worked.  On  account  of  the 
illness  of  their  father  they  had  no  opportunity 
to  buy  clothes,  American  clothes.  They  were 
still  in  their  greenhorn  dresses,  and  the  whole 
shop  made  fun  of  them.  They  simply  had  to  buy 
clothes.  The  money  we  brought  here  was  long 
since  gone,  so  when  their  father  was  brought  home 
after  the  first  operation  there  wasn't  a  penny  in 
the  house.  The  visiting  doctor  gave  me  a  letter 
to  the  charities  and  told  me  that  they  would  help 
me.  I  went  there.  I  don't  want  to  tell  you 
through  what  I  went  at  their  hands.  Enough  to 
say  that  when  I  came  home  I  felt  as  though  I 
had  committed  the  greatest  sin.  I  felt  guilty 
towards  myself.  I  felt  like  a  criminal  awaiting 
his  day  of  judgment. 

"  Finally  the  investigator,  a  young  lady,  came. 
She  saw  my  daughters.  They  were  neatly  dressed, 
and  as  young  girls  generally  are,  they  thought 
of  their  own  life,  were  gay  and  healthy.  The 
investigator  started  to  examine  them  and  after 


54  Crimes  of  Charity 

every  answer  she  tried  to  confuse  them  and  prove 
that  they  lied.  She  stayed  a  half  hour.  When 
she  left  the  poor  children  were  as  pale  as  death 
—  a  terrible  gloom  had  settled  upon  them  —  as 
though  death  itself  had  visited  our  shelter. 

"  From  then  on  we  had  no  repose.  They 
helped  us  with  a  few  dollars,  but  every  other  day 
some  one  else  inquired  about  us  —  at  the  neigh- 
bours—  at  the  grocer  —  butcher.  They  visited 
us  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night.  Sometimes 
when  we  had  visitors  the  investigator  would  ques- 
tion them,  until  all  our  friends  have  left  us.  They 
followed  the  poor  children  to  their  work  and  went 
to  take  information  from  the  employer.  On  one 
occasion,  when  the  girls  struck  together  with  the 
other  workers  of  the  shop  the  boss  cried  out  to 
my  girls :  *  I'll  show  you !  When  the  charity  will 
come  I'll  give  such  information  that  you  wouldn't 
get  a  cent.'  This  was  too  much  for  the  poor 
children.  They  came  home,  packed  their  belong- 
ings —  and  — '*  Here  the  poor  woman  broke  out 
in  hysterical  weeping,  approaching  the  two  empty 
beds,  and  cried:  "My  house  is  empty.  Cursed 
be  the  hour  when  I  applied  to  charity.  I  should 
have  gone  out  begging  in  the  street." 

And  as  I  slipped  out  of  the  house  the  cry  of 
the  woman  pursued  me. 

"  Cursed  —  Cursed  be  the  hour  that  I  applied 
to  charity  1  " 


Watch  Their  Mail  55 

I  reported  the  next  day  the  situation  of  the 
family  and  urged  immediate  relief.  The  Man- 
ager called  me  into  his  sanctum  and  told  me  that 
my  information  was  not  complete,  since  I  had  not 
learned  where  the  daughters  were.  "  I  am  sure," 
he  said,  "  that  she  knows  where  they  are.  You 
must  get  it  out  of  her." 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  "  but  in  the  meantime  send 
them  relief.     There  is  no  coal,  no  bread." 

"Are  you  sure?"  he  asked.  I  assured  him 
of  the  fact. 

"  Then  it's  all  right,"  and  he  rubbed  his  hands 
with  great  satisfaction.  "  It's  all  right,"  he  re- 
peated. "  We'll  break  her  stubbornness,  all 
right.  We'll  get  their  address  now.  So  they 
have  no  bread,  eh?  " 

Cries  from  the  waiting  room  came  to  my  ears, 
as  though  a  chorus  of  those  unfortunate  beings 
would  blaspheme  all  together :  "  Cursed  be  the 
hour  when  we  applied  to  charity  —  cursed  — 
cursed  —  cursed." 

We  were  interrupted  by  some  one  else  coming 
In  on  some  business. 

I  felt  my  head  swimming  and  I  looked  long- 
ingly outside  through  the  large  window  over  the 
Manager's  desk.  A  little  bird  flew  around  the 
sill,  and  hungry,  she  tried  to  pick  the  putty  from 
around  the  pane.  Mr.  Rogers  probably  followed 
my  wandering  gaze  for  he  was  soon  standing 


56  Crimes  of  Charity 

near  me  and  having  also  remarked  the  little  bird 
he  exclaimed:  "  Poor  little  thing,  is  it  not  pitiful? 
Hungry  and  cold  I  "  So  saying  he  opened  the 
window  and  invited  the  bird  to  enter.  Yet  the 
bird  preferred  to  remain  outside. 

Mr.  Lawson  was  called  in  and  a  conference 
took  place  as  to  how  to  force  Mrs.  Sokol  to  give 
the  address  of  her  children. 

"  But  do  you  suppose  that  she  has  sold  her 
children  for  immoral  purposes  that  you  are  so 
anxious  to  learn  their  whereabouts?" 

"  No,  we  don't  suppose  that,^^  Mr.  Rogers  an- 
swered, "  but  when  we  give  them  money  we  want 
to  know  everything,  you  understand,  everything. 
Here  she  has  two  daughters  and  she  keeps  their 
address  a  secret  I  Whatever  we  have  done  was 
of  no  avail.  We  must  curb  her.  Isn't  that  so, 
Mr.  Lawson?  We  must  show  her  that  she  cannot 
keep  secrets  from  us.  What  would  you  suggest, 
Mr.  Baer?" 

I  had  nothing  to  say. 

Mr.  Lawson  twisted  his  little  blond  moustache 
awhile,  then  he  suddenly  exclaimed  joyfully,  as 
Archimedes  cried,  "  Eureka  "  when  he  discovered 
the  law  of  specific  gravity:  "  Watch  their  mail  I  " 

"  They  certainly  get  mail  from  the  girls.  Let 
Mr.  Baer  watch  their  mail  and  get  one  of  their 
letters,  and  that  will  solve  the  whole  thing." 

The  manager  pronounced  it  a  splendid  idea  and 


Watch  Their  Mail  57 

I  was  instructed  accordingly.  I  went  up  to  see 
Mr.  Sokol  a  few  times  and  reported  that  they  got 
no  mail.  One  morning,  while  visiting  them,  I 
found  that  the  man  had  died  over  night.  Among 
the  mourners  were  two  beautiful,  pale  girls.  The 
daughters  of  the  old  couple. 

I  reported  the  occurrence  at  the  office.  Mr. 
Lawson  called  me  to  his  room. 

"  So  he  died  ?  He  died  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  We 
will  send  her  to  the  old  people's  asylum.  That 
will  save  rent.     But  you  saw  the  girls,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"What's  their  address?     Did  you  find  out?" 

"  I  could  not  ask  their  address  in  such  a  mo- 
ment," I  retorted. 

"  It's  a  mistake,  an  awful  mistake,  Mr.  Baer," 
he  censured  me.  "  It  was  the  best  occasion. 
You  should  have  taken  advantage  of  the  moment. 
Please  return  to  the  house  and  get  their  address," 
he  instructed,  as  he  led  me  to  the  door. 

From  the  hall  I  ran  out  into  the  street.  I 
wanted  fresh  air  —  air  and  space.  And  this  same 
Mr.  Lawson  almost  cried  when  his  wife's  pet 
dog  died.  And  Mr.  Rogers  pitied  the  poor  little 
bird  that  picked  the  putty  off  the  sill.  And  at 
charity  conventions,  when  he  had  to  appeal  for 
funds,  he  almost  shed  tears  about  "  our  unfortu- 
nate brothers  and  sisters."  Now  they  advise, 
when  the  father  lay  dead  on  the  floor:  "  It  was 


58  Crimes  of  Charity 

the  best  occasion.  You  should  have  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  moment."  Would  a  criminal  be 
treated  in  this  way  during  the  third  degree  ? 

The  woman  died  a  month  after,  in  a  hospital. 
Hunger  and  privation  of  all  sorts  had  undermined 
her  strength.     Charity  had  killed  them  both. 


I 


THE  ROLLER  SKATES 

*'XNVESTIGATE    Mrs.    B.,    124th   Street, 
No.    — .     Investigator    reports    woman 
never   home.     Questions   morality.     Ur- 
gent.    W.  L." 

I  found  this  slip  on  my  desk  one  fine  morning. 
An  hour  after  I  was  at  the  given  address.  The 
door  was  locked.  No  one  was  at  home.  Inquiry 
at  the  neighbours  Informed  me  that  I  would  have 
to  wait  until  three  o'clock  when  the  children  came 
from  school. 

"And  Mrs.  B.?  When  does  she  come?"  I 
asked. 

"  When  the  children  come  from  school,"  I  was 
answered. 

Consequently  I  had  to  remain  In  the  neighbour- 
hood. New  York's  climate  Is  very  fit  for  a  cos- 
mopolitan city.  Just  as  the  men  of  the  South 
dwell  In  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Northern,  the 
Italian  near  the  Norwegian  and  the  Spaniard  in 
the  same  building  with  the  Russian,  so  does  the 
winter  live  near  the  summer,  the  spring  next  to 
the  autumn.  One  day  a  snowstorm,  the  next  day 
It  rains.     You  put  on  the  heaviest  clothes  one 

59 


6o  Crimes  of  Charity 

morning  and  come  home  with  your  waistcoat  on 
your  arm,  so  to  speak.  Here  in  the  middle  of 
winter,  the  second  half  of  January,  I  had  gone 
out  with  a  heavy  winter  coat  and  at  one  o'clock 
it  looked  more  like  the  end  of  May  than  winter. 
I  walked  up  to  Central  Park  to  spend  my  time 
until  3  P.  M.  The  squirrels  had  left  their  hiding 
places  and  were  dancing  to  and  fro  to  replenish 
their  reserve  store  of  food.  The  little  birds 
flew  and  sang  merrily.  The  children  of  the  well 
to  do,  watched  by  the  ever-following  servants, 
played  with  the  caged  prairie  dogs,  the  goats  and 
other  animals  of  the  Park  Zoo.  Around  the  mon- 
key cage  the  people  of  the  suburbs  and  more  dis- 
tant towns  and  villages  were  watching  and  enjoy- 
ing the  antics  of  our  gay  ancestors.  The  lions 
roared,  the  tiger  groaned,  and  that  money-saving 
elephant  rang  the  bell  every  time  some  one  put 
a  cent  in  his  big  snout.  This  was  the  only  thing 
he  had  learned  from  men  —  save  money.  I  don't 
know  why,  but  one  forgets  himself  so  easily  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  children,  farmers  and  wild 
animals.  I  had  not  noticed  how  time  passed  and 
stood  in  the  Zoo  more  than  the  required  time.  I 
had  completely  forgotten  my  mission.  But  some 
one  inquired  the  time  from  the  keeper.  I  heard 
his  answer  and  ran. 

In  124th  Street  again. 

The  children  are  out  of  school.     The  street 


The  Roller  Skates  6i 

has  taken  on  life.  Girls  are  jumping  the  rope 
and  the  boys  have  taken  out  their  skates  and 
glide  gracefully  up  and  down  the  sidewalk.  Their 
faces  are  red,  their  eyes  are  brilliant  and  their 
arms  swing  to  and  fro  to  keep  their  balance.  In 
an  empty  lot  a  group  of  Jewish  boys  fight  it  out 
with  some  Irish  youngsters.  On  another  lot  an- 
other group  of  Irish  and  Jewish  boys  play  base- 
ball. 

I  ring  the  bell  of  Mrs.  B.'s  home.  No  answer. 
I  inquire  of  the  neighbour.  "  Are  the  B.'s 
home?" 

"  The  children  are  back  from  school  and  are 
probably  out  in  the  street,  the  little  loafers."  She 
closed  up.  I  would  like  to  speak  with  her  fur- 
ther, so  I  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Excuse  me  for  inconveniencing  you,  madam, 
but  could  you  tell  me  when  Mrs.  B.  will  be  home 
—  whether  she  is  at  home  In  the  morning?  " 

"  I  could  not  tell  you,  sir." 

"  Does  she  go  out  to  work?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  care.  Ask  some  one 
else.  Every  day  another  bother  about  the  poor 
woman.  I  am  tired  of  answering.  The  charity 
agam  ? 

"  No,  no,"  I  assured  her.  "  I  have  some  other 
business  with  her.  I  am  an  old  friend  from  the 
time  her  husband  was  yet  alive." 

*'  She'll  soon  be  in.     She  is  probably  talking 


62  Crimes  of  Charity 

with  a  neighbour.  Wait;  I'll  go  and  ask  the 
boy.     He  must  be  near  the  house." 

Presently  she  put  a  shawl  over  her  shoulders, 
gave  a  last  look  to  the  boiling  pots,  covered  one, 
took  another  off,  and  was  soon  with  me  in  the 
street.  She  looked  to  the  right  and  left,  asked 
the  grocer  and  butcher,  and  finished  by  calling 
down  the  street:  "Mike  I  Mike  I  Where  are 
you,  loafer?  "  She  soon  distinguished  him  among 
the  other  boys  and  pointed  him  out  to  me.  He 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  us  watching  the 
other  boys  as  they  glided  on  their  skates. 

"  Mike,  Mike  I  "  the  woman  called,  but  the  boy 
was  too  engrossed  to  hear  her.  Together  we 
walked  up  to  him.  "  That  gentleman  wants  to 
see  your  mother,  you  loafer,"  the  woman  intro- 
duced him,  and  went  her  way.  A  boy  of  twelve 
years  old,  who  looked  like  one  of  eight  by  his 
physique,  and  like  an  old  man  by  his  wrinkled 
and  worn-out  look.  Pale,  stooping,  with  a  little 
nervous  twitch  around  the  lips  and  a  short  tearing 
cough  as  he  spoke.  This  told  the  tale  of  his 
misery. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  me  angrily. 

"  Come  into  the  house,"  I  answered,  and  put- 
ting a  hand  on  his  shoulder  I  signed  him  to 
follow  me. 

"  I  want  to  stay  here,"  the  boy  said,  and  with 
a  jerk  he  freed  himself  from  my  hand.     "  I  want 


The  Roller  Skates  63 

to  watch  the  boys  play — ^run  on  the  skates," 
and  he  turned  away  to  watch  one  particularly 
able  boy  as  he  made  fancy  figures  with  his  feet. 

"  Where  are  your  skates,  Mike?  "  I  questioned. 

"I  have  none.  What's  it  your  business?" 
From  the  empty  lot  flew  a  ball.  Mike  caught 
it  and  was  about  to  throw  it  back  when  one  of 
the  boys  called  out : 

"  Hi,  Hi,  Mike  —  charity  kid  —  hurry  up. 
Throw  the  ball  here.     Hurry  up." 

Angry,  Mike  threw  the  ball  In  the  opposite 
direction  and  flashed  back  a  short  sentence  that 
gave  his  opinion  about  his  Insulter.  A  fist  fight 
was  the  result  and  the  poor  lad  would  have  got- 
ten the  worst  of  It  had  not  his  mother  suddenly 
appeared  from  behind,  and  hitting  the  aggressor 
and  the  child  she  separated  them  and  took  her  son 
home.  He  wriggled  as  though  he  wanted  to  go 
back  to  fight,  but  his  mother  had  him  well  In  hand. 
I  followed  them.  At  the  entrance  of  the  hall 
I  waited  a  few  minutes  before  knocking  at  the 
door,  listening.  The  mother  scolded,  the  boy 
cried  and  a  little  girl's  voice  pacified. 

"  Come  In." 

"Mrs.  B.?"  I  Inquired. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  woman  answered,  and  as  she 
spoke  she  removed  her  coat  and  rubbers. 

About  thirty,  care-ploughed  face,  weak  eyes, 
colourless  lips,  stooped,  narrow,  short  of  breath. 


64  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  What  is  it  you  want,  sir?  " 

"  Could  we  go  into  another  room  or  would 
you  send  the  children  out  so  we  can  talk  at  our 
case,  Mrs.  B.  ?  " 

The  woman  thought  for  awhile,  then  she  beck- 
oned to  the  children,  who  went  into  another  room. 
I  came  straight  to  the  point.  I  claimed  that  I 
was  from  the  Gerry  Society  and  that  the  children 
were  not  well  taken  care  of. 

"  Where  are  you  the  whole  day?  You  leave 
the  children  on  the  street,  their  shoes  are  torn, 
their  clothes  not  suitable  to  the  season  —  they  are 
hungry,  dirty." 

The  woman  cried,  whined.  She  was  a  poor 
widow.  Charities  gave  her  too  little  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  story  that  I  expected. 

"  But  where  are  you  the  whole  day  long  and 
late  at  night?  "  I  insisted. 

She  gave  a  thousand  explanations,  none  of 
which  were  true.  The  last  one  was  that  she  went 
to  neighbours  in  order  to  save  coal.  At  this  point 
the  boy  came  out  from  the  other  room.  He 
looked  determined,  and  he  had  a  little  book  folded 
in  his  hand. 

"  Mamma  lies.  She  goes  out  for  business. 
She  sells  laces  and  curtains." 

"  Shut  up  —  shut  upl  "  She  sprang  from  her 
chair.     I  interfered.     "  Let  the  boy  alone." 

"  Mamma  lies,"  the  boy  continued,  and  showed 


The  Roller  Skates  65 

me  the  bank  book.  I  opened  it  and  saw  that  the 
balance  was  almost  five  hundred  dollars. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Five  hundred  dol- 
lars in  the  bank  and  your  children  hungry  and 
naked?" 

The  woman  looked  like  a  criminal  before  the 
bar.     The  boy  explained. 

"  It's  not  her  fault,  Mister.  It's  the  fault  of 
the  ladies  from  the  charities.  They  come  here 
and  bother  every  day.  She  can't  buy  anything, 
not  even  meat  every  day.  She  has  to  put  the 
money  in  the  bank.  She  has  promised  that  when 
we  move  out  she  will  buy  me  a  pair  of  skates  like 
all  the  other  boys  and  girls  have.  Now  she  has 
enough  money.  Let  her  move  away  from  here 
to  a  place  where  nobody  knows  us.  I  don't  want 
to  be  called  '  charity  kid '  any  longer.  I  want 
roller  skates.  I  want  to  move,  I  want  new  pants, 
I  want  meat  every  day.  I  don't  want  to  be  called 
charity  kid  any  longer,  and  that's  all." 

The  mother  looked  at  her  son  and  cried.  The 
little  girl  hid  in  a  corner.  The  boy  had  finished. 
His  nerves  gave  out  and  he  too  cried.  A  few 
moments  I  looked  at  them  and  thought  again  of 
the  poor  wretches  who  are  in  the  clutches  of  or- 
ganised charity,  the  mother  that  starved  her  chil- 
dren because  she  dared  not  buy  meat,  because 
she  dared  not  dress  them.  In  four  years  she  had 
save  five  hundred  dollars.     Just  the  price  of  meat 


66  Crimes  of  Charity 

for  every  day  of  the  year.  A  little  more  bread 
and  fruit.  She  certainly  had  saved  with  an  ob- 
ject in  view.  To  save  herself.  And  all  the  time 
the  children  knew  that  she  had  the  price  of  food. 
The  boy,  longing  for  childish  pleasures,  roller 
skates,  which  the  mother  dared  not  buy  because 
of  the  investigator's  "  Where  did  you  get  the 
money?"  The  bad  neighbour,  for  whom  the 
poor  woman  may  not  have  wanted  to  wash  the 
floor,  would  call  in  the  "Lady"  and  tell  her: 
"  They  have  meat  every  day.  The  children  have 
pennies,  and  now  they  have  skates  too."  And 
the  "  Lady  "  would  question,  torture,  menace,  call 
names,  insult.  Ah  I  I  knew  the  whole  game 
now.  Knew  it  only  too  well.  That  little  room 
at  the  top  of  which  is  the  sign  "  Investigator." 
I  knew  how  they  went  in  there.  Knew  how  they 
came  out.     No,  it  was  not  her  fault. 

"  Here,  Mrs.  B. —  your  bank  book.  I  am  not 
from  the  Gerry  Society.  I  am  from  the  chari- 
ties." 

The  woman  trembled.  The  boy  looked  at 
me. 

"  When  does  your  month  finish  here?  " 

"  On  the  first." 

"  Move  away  from  here,  woman,  move  away. 
It*s  your  last  chance  to  save  yourself.  Move 
away  and  earn  your  living.  You  will  not  get  a 
cent  from  the  charities,  and  that  boy  must  not 


The  Roller  Skates  67 

be  touched.     You  are  to  let  him  alone  or  I  will 
take  him  away  from  you.     Good-night." 

I  ran  out.  At  home  a  party  of  friends  awaited 
me.  We  were  to  go  and  hear  music.  I  could 
not.  I  wanted  to  drink.  I  stayed  at  home  and 
drank  brandy  until  I  fell  asleep.  I  drank  and 
swore  until  I  slept. 

The  next  morning  when  I  had  to  make  out  my 
report  I  excused  myself,  saying  that  I  had  to  con- 
tinue my  investigation  as  I  had  more  informa- 
tion to  gather.  In  reality  it  was  to  give  me  time 
to  think  out  what  to  say  and  what  not  to  say. 
The  next  day  I  made  out  a  report,  simply  saying 
that  I  had  found  out  the  woman  Mrs.  B.  had 
five  hundred  dollars  in  the  German  Bank,  Book 
No.  8 . .  . ,  that  she  does  business  in  curtains ;  and 
advised  them  to  cut  her  off  immediately.  The 
Manager  did  not  believe  what  I  said  and  con- 
sequently 'phoned  to  the  bank,  which  corroborated 
my  statement.  Immediately  the  investigators 
were  called  in,  and  in  firm  tones  the  Manager 
lectured  them  on  their  tender-heartedness  with 
applicants.  He  told  them  that  they  must  make 
their  investigations  in  a  more  thorough  manner, 
otherwise  they  would  lose  their  positions.  Stupid 
fool  that  I  was.  Whenever  I  wanted  to  do  good 
I  only  made  the  poor  suffer  more. 

Promptly  on  the  first  of  the  next  month  I  was 


68  Crimes  of  Charity 

in  124th  Street.  Mrs.  B.  had  moved  a  few  days 
before.  Through  the  Express  Company  I  got 
her  address,  way  up  in  the  Bronx.  I  went  there, 
on  Washington  Avenue.  I  saw  the  boy  and  girl 
in  new  clothes  and  on  roller  skates. 

"  Hullo,"  I  greeted  them.  They  both  became 
pale. 

"  Where  do  you  live  now,  children?  " 

The  boy  thought  a  moment  and  then  he  hissed 
out  between  his  teeth:  "  What  in  hell  is  it  your 
business,  now?  We  don't  get  any  more  money 
from  you.  What  do  you  come  to  bother  us  here 
for?  We  don't  want  you.  We  have  got  enough 
of  your  dirty  business." 

"Listen,"  I  told  him:  "I  don't  want  to 
bother  you  any  more,  but  tell  me,  have  you  bread 
and  meat  every  day  now?  " 

"  Meat  and  candies  and  butter  and  everything, 
and  mamma  has  a  million  in  the  bank  and  that's 
all,  and  don't  come  to  bother  us.  We  are  no 
more  '  charity  kids.'  For  God's  sake  can't  you 
leave  us  alone  ?  " 

**  Good  luck  to  you."  I  turned  around  and  dis- 
appeared as  quickly  as  possible. 


THE  TEST 

IN  the  boiler  factories  they  submit  the  boiler 
to  a  test  of  resistance.  The  engine  is  sub- 
jected to  a  pressure  three  or  four  times 
stronger  than  the  one  it  will  have  to  withstand 
in  the  ordinary  run  of  work.  If  successful  it  is 
sent  out  to  the  market  guaranteed  by  the  factory. 
If  not,  it  is  made  over.  The  weak  points  are 
strengthened,  and  in  most  cases  it  is  put  away  to 
be  entirely  recast. 

For  boilers  and  engines  this  may  be  a  good  sys- 
tem of  control,  though  many  an  engineer  main- 
tains that  the  over-pressure  weakens  the  machine 
for  ordinary  use. 

To  use  such  a  system  with  men,  women  and 
children  is  barbarous,  to  say  the  least.  The  In- 
quisition had  such  a  system  —  the  Question 
Chamber.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  persons 
put  to  the  "  Question "  often  admitted  things 
which  in  reality  they  had  never  said  or  done. 
Most  of  the  time  they,  the  tortured  ones,  knew 
that  to  admit  these  things  meant  death,  the  hang- 
man or  the  auto  da  fe.  Still,  when  they  con- 
fessed, the  torture  ceased  for  the  moment.     This 

69 


"JO  Crimes  of  Charity 

they  called  "  The  Test."  Not  one  in  a  thousand 
could  maintain  his  will  power  when  the  test  was 
applied.  It  went  on  in  crescendo  as  the  hours 
passed  by  and  the  man  or  woman  did  not  "  re- 
spond." It  was  up  to  the  man  doing  the  work 
to  devise  such  means  as  would  loosen  the  tongue, 
break  the  will.  The  hangman  himself  was  pun- 
ished for  not  getting  at  the  truth,  or  was  praised 
by  his  superior  for  his  success.  Torquemada 
called  a  particular  man  from  Madrid  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Grenada,  as  he  alone  knew  how  to 
apply  the  "  Test "  to  the  glory  of  the  Almighty 
and  of  Jesus  Christ.  This  man  had  perfected 
himself  in  the  art  of  torturing.  I  am  not  certain 
whether  this  is  the  man  who  is  spoken  of  in  con- 
nection with  the  "  Question  "  of  a  certain  gentle- 
man which  had  to  be  put  off  because  the  "  real 
one  "  at  the  bench  had  a  terrible  toothache  that 
day. 

But  the  "  Test "  is  applied  to-day.  Applied 
to  the  poor  by  organised  charity.  Applied  sys- 
tematically, methodically  and  in  crescendo;  and 
like  the  "  real  one  "  wanted  by  Torquemada  there 
are  real  ones  in  the  offices  of  the  Charity  Institu- 
tions. 

This  is  how  it  Is  done. 

A  family  is  pensioned  by  the  organisation. 
Three  or  four  years  the  family  has  received  regu- 
larly two  dollars  a  week  and  the  rent  and  coals 


The  Test  71 

for  the  winter.  Then  all  at  once,  generally  early 
in  the  winter,  the  order  to  apply  the  "  Test "  is 
given.  The  family  is  visited  three  or  four  times 
in  a  week.  The  children  are  followed  to  and 
from  their  work.  The  neighbours  are  adroitly 
asked  about  the  family.  Every  one  visiting  the 
family  and  surprised  by  the  investigator  is  ques- 
tioned: "Are  you  the  brother  of  Mrs.  B.?" 
"  Are  you  her  husband?  Are  you  her  boarder?  " 
If  this  does  not  bring  results  the  coal  is  cut  off, 
to  see  whether  the  family  cannot  succeed  in  raising 
money  for  coal.  If  this  is  not  successful  the  al- 
lowance is  discontinued  for  a  few  weeks.  This 
naturally  brings  the  woman  to  the  office.  She  is 
not  allowed  to  see  the  Manager.  For  several 
days  this  is  continued,  then  the  question  is  put: 
What  is  she  doing  at  night?  Where  does  she  go 
during  the  day?  Whence  does  she  get  the  neces- 
sary additional  money?  If  she  is  a  stubborn  sub- 
ject and  resists  all  this,  then  the  rent  is  cut  off. 
The  landlord  waits  a  few  days.  The  woman 
runs  to  the  office.  "  What  shall  I  do?  "  "  We 
have  no  money;  help  yourself,"  she  is  told.  In  a 
few  days  the  "  furniture,"  two  broken  chairs,  a 
limping  table  and  a  mattress,  are  put  out  in  the 
street.  In  the  cold,  in  the  snow,  the  children  are 
huddled  up  in  rags,  between  the  table  and  the 
stove  and  the  picture  of  Washington.  On  top  of 
the  bundle  of  bedding  is  a  saucer  in  which  some 


72  Crimes  of  Charity 

passersby  have  thrown  a  few  cents.  Sometimes, 
in  a  case  like  this,  some  distant,  poor  relative,  or 
some  one  with  whom  the  family  had  connections, 
steps  in  and  gives  them  a  helping  hand.  Then, 
the  test  being  successful,  the  woman  is  cut  off  the 
pension  list.     She  has  helped  herself. 

At  other  times,  there  being  no  one  to  help,  the 
applicant  makes  such  a  row  that  he  is  restored 
to  the  list  with  a  cross  after  his  name  denoting 
bad  behaviour.  On  another  occasion  he  will 
again  be  tried. 

Sometimes  the  woman  comes  running  and  begs 
that  her  rent  be  paid.  She  will  attend  to  the  rest. 
She  will  sell  newspapers,  matches.  She  will  scrub 
floors.  She  will  send  her  twelve  year  old  daugh- 
ter to  work. 

"  You  can't  do  that.     She  is  not  of  age." 

**  Yes,  she  is." 

"  According  to  our  records  she  is  only  twelve 
years  old." 

"  I  lied,  then.  She  is  fourteen.  Only  pay  my 
rent.     I  can't  stay  in  the  street." 

The  "  Test "  has  been  partially  successful. 
Pension  and  coal  supply  is  cut  off.  Only  the  rent 
is  paid.     A  little  girl  is  sent  to  an  early  grave. 

I  remember  one  case  where  the  coalman,  an 
old  Italian,  had  pity  and  gave  the  coal  on  credit. 
When  the  investigator  asked  him  why  he  did  so 
he  answered  angrily,   "  Not  your  business."     A 


The  Test  73 

report  was  made  in  regard  to  the  immoral  rela- 
tions between  the  poor  widow  and  the  old  Italian. 
It  was  but  natural  that  a  certain  friendship  should 
be  established  between  the  widow  and  her  bene- 
factor. She  repaired  his  clothes,  and  when  the 
allowance  was  cut  off  he  divided  his  bread  with 
her.  No  amount  of  explanation  could  convince 
the  investigator  that  the  woman  was  not  proven 
to  be  immoral  by  this  fact. 

"  Why  is  she  so  friendly  with  the  coalman?  " 

"  Because  she  is  cold  and  he  gives  her  coals." 

"  Why  does  he  give  her  coals?  " 

"  Because  you  don't  send  her  any." 

Then  the  investigator  would  answer  trium- 
phantly : 

"  If  she  were  an  honest  woman  she  would  stand 
the  test.  She  would  suffer  cold  and  hunger." 
Then  she  would  remember  that  last  summer  the 
woman  had  a  new  dress  that  she  could  not  ac- 
count for  and  once  there  was  a  piece  of  chicken 
in  her  pot.  She  evidently  got  it  from  the  butcher 
for  her  good  offices.  The  poor  have  no  business 
to  eat  chicken.  It  is  the  old  question  of  the 
Southern  negro.  He  is  not  allowed  to  engage 
in  other  trades  than  cooking  and  shoe  shining, 
and  when  you  discuss  this  with  a  Southern  gen- 
tleman he  proves  to  you  that  the  negro  is  an  in- 
ferior being  from  the  fact  that  he  does  not  work 
at  anything  but  these  trades.     You  cut  off  the 


74  Crimes  of  Charity 

supply  of  coal  in  the  dead  of  winter,  and  when 
the  woman  obtains  it  from  the  coalman  it  is  a 
proof  that  she  is  dishonest  —  that  they  are  "  all 
alike."  It  is  true  that  many  of  them  would  give 
their  bodies  for  a  bucket  of  coal  or  a  piece  of  meat 
when  they  are  hungry  and  cold.  Many  of  them 
have  admitted  crimes  that  they  have  never  com- 
mitted under  stress.  But  what  does  that  prove? 
One  young  widow  with  a  two  year  old  child 
when  submitted  to  the  test  twice  in  one  year  was 
taken  in  by  a  "  Madame  "  of  a  house  of  ill-fame 
in  the  neighbourhood.  She  left  the  few  broken 
chairs  and  the  table  on  the  sidewalk  and  went 
there  in  the  capacity  of  cook.  I  found  her  there. 
She  was  glad  of  the  change.  "  But  it  is  an  im- 
moral house,"  I  argued.  "  It's  better  than  to  be 
at  the  mercy  of  the  investigator  and  the  office," 
was  her  answer.  A  few  weeks  later  she  had 
given  away  her  child  and  was  a  regular  inmate 
of  the  house,  and  still  glad  of  the  change,  and 
thankful  to  the  woman  who  had  taken  her  in. 
But  the  report  of  the  investigator,  both  to  the 
charity  institution  and  the  Sisterhood,  reads: 
"  Mrs.  K.  always  led  a  life  of  shame  and  all  my 
work  was  unsuccessful.  When  put  to  the  test  she 
went  to  a  disreputable  house  and  has  of  late 
abandoned  her  own  child."  The  Sisterhood  used 
their  influence  and  had  the  house  raided  a  few 
times  and  all  the  women  arrested,  Mrs.  K.  among 


The  Test  75 

them.  The  "  madame  "  was  expressly  told  that 
she  was  being  persecuted  on  account  of  the  woman 
she  had  taken  in.  When  Mrs.  K.  had  finished 
her  sentence  in  prison  she  found  the  door  of  the 
house  closed  to  her.  Fourteenth  Street  is  free. 
I  spoke  to  her.  She  is  still  glad  of  the  change. 
Such  are  the  results  of  the  "  Test." 

It  is  not  those  who  do  not  receive  charity  — 
the  poor  who  have  to  go  without  —  who  are  to 
be  pitied,  but  those  who  are  in  the  clutches  of 
charity.  They  should  be  helped,  saved.  They 
are  the  greatest  sufferers.  Under  the  cloak  of 
charity  men  and  women  are  tortured.  Each 
piece  of  bread  is  scalded  with  tears  and  pains,  and 
if  another  Napoleon  should  arise  there  is  a  job 
waiting  for  him  —  to  burn  down  the  modern  In- 
quisition, destroy  the  torture  chamber,  abolish 
the  "  Question,"  the  "  Test,"  to  save  the  poor 
from  organised  charity. 

No  wonder  that  the  situation  is  such  a  horrible 
one,  when  you  consider  the  general  mentality  of 
the  people  supposed  to  work  for  the  ameliora- 
tion of  the  suffering  poor.  Who  are  they? 
Have  they  the  interest  of  the  poor  at  heart,  or 
do  they  consider  first  their  own  job?  Does  any 
one  of  them  start  his  daily  work  with  a  thought 
of  the  poor,  with  a  charitable  thought?  Not  at 
all.     His  only  occupation  is  how  to  please  his 


yt  Crimes  of  Charity 

superior,  how  to  show  a  good  record,  so  that  his 
own  bread  is  assured.  The  poor  are  stepping 
stones,  a  climbing  ladder  towards  promotion,  so- 
cial influence,  recognition.  Incidentally  some  of 
the  applicants  get  a  few  dollars  a  week,  but  they 
are  not  the  real  objective  point. 

It  reminds  me  of  Colonel  Sellers  in  Mark 
Twain's  story.  He  proposes  a  partnership  to  a 
young  man  for  the  manufacture  of  a  certain  eye- 
water, a  special  preparation  to  heal  sore  eyes, 
and  when  the  young  man  becomes  enthusiastic 
about  it  —  he  will  heal  sores !  —  Colonel  Sellers 
tells  him:  "This  is  not  the  object,  my  boy. 
From  the  first  fifty  thousand  bottles  we  sell  we 
open  another  branch  in  Calcutta  or  Bombay  — 
there  are  millions  of  sufferers  there."  Again  the 
young  man  thinks  of  the  good  work,  but  Colonel 
Sellers  continues :  "  And  from  there  we  estab- 
lish warehouses  in  Alexandria,  Smyrna  and  Buenos 
Ayres,  twenty  million  bottles  a  year  is  our  out- 
put, with  a  net  profit  of  two  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year."  By  this  time  the  young  man  too  has 
been  Influenced  to  look  away  from  the  real  object, 
the  sick,  the  sufferers.  Two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  a  year  is  a  good  prize.  But  Twain  had 
something  in  his  sleeve  and  Colonel  Sellers  deliv- 
ers his  last  blow. 

"  Do  you  think  that  a  man  like  me  would  be 
satisfied  with  a  paltry  two  hundred  thousand  dol- 


The  Test  77 

lars  a  year?  There's  millions  in  it,  my  dear  boy." 
The  real  business  now  only  begins.  "  We  will 
form  a  stock  company  with  a  capital  of  twenty-five 
million  dollars,  etc.,  etc." 

This  was  the  real  business.  The  sick  and  poor 
and  the  medicine  were  only  an  incident,  a  neces- 
sary ingredient  to  the  whole  scheme  to  give  it  an 
appearance  of  something.  There  are  enough 
Colonel  Sellers  in  the  charity  institutions.  They 
are  there  only  for  a  fraction  of  time  before  they 
get  the  real  thing  —  before  they  form  the  stock 
company.  Incidentally  the  sore  eye  preparation, 
namely,  the  poor,  play  a  role. 

The  charity  institution — ^it  is  the  Stock  Ex- 
change of  suffering. 

I  have  just  described  one  form  of  the  "  Test." 
When  I  once  spoke  about  it  to  some  one  who  has 
been  connected  with  another  one  of  these  insti- 
tutions for  years,  expecting  him  to  be  horrified, 
he  simply  took  a  note  of  the  details  in  his  book. 
"And  how  does  it  work?  "  he  asked  me.  I  ex- 
plained that  a  good  many,  driven  to  the  brink, 
have  squirmed  out  by  some  by-path,  while  others 
shift  for  themselves  as  best  they  can. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  thought  aloud,  "  I'll  have  to 
try  it  myself."  And  incidentally  I  learned  a  good 
many  other  tricks  of  the  trade,  as  he  called  them, 
from  him. 


78  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  There  was  one  particular  woman,"  he  told 
me,  "  whose  mouth  I  had  to  open  with  my  fist 
so  that  she  would  tell  us  where  her  boy  was.  He 
had  run  away  from  the  place  we  had  found  for 
him.  We  wanted  him  to  learn  a  trade  and  a 
glassblower  gave  him  a  chance.  But  the  boy 
would  not  stay  with  his  boss.  I  argued  and  argued 
and  argued.  He  did  not  like  the  trade,  he  told 
me,  but  in  reality  it  was  work  he  did  not  like. 
The  last  time  he  ran  away  I  decided  that  it  was 
about  time  to  show  my  authority  and  I  found  a 
reason  to  have  him  arrested.  The  mother  having 
told  me  that  he  had  not  given  her  his  pay  I  wanted 
her  to  get  a  warrant  issued  and  put  him  away 
for  a  few  months  in  a  house  of  correction,  just 
to  teach  him  a  good  lesson,  but  the  mother  would 
not  tell  me  where  he  was.  When  I  saw  that  I 
could  not  make  her  say  anything  by  persuasion  — 
well,  I  had  to  use  force." 

"  What  of  the  boy?  "  I  inquired. 

"  He  was  no  good.  He  was  six  months  in  the 
house  of  correction,  but  it  did  not  help.  He  is  now 
a  gang  leader  of  very  bad  reputation,"  he  fin- 
ished, with  devout  eyes.  This  stupid  ass  in 
charge  of  the  poor,  who  walks  six  miles  to  get  a 
certain  brand  of  cigar,  would  not  understand  that 
a  boy  may  not  like  one  trade  and  be  very  willing 
to  learn  another.  This  spiritual  hog  wanted  to 
show  his  authority  by  compelling  a  mother  to  give 


The  Test  79 

up  her  child  to  gaolers  —  used  force  to  do  it  — 
to  the  Glory  of  the  Almighty  and  Jesus  Christ. 
And  he  wondered  that  his  "  case  "  had  become 
a  gang  leader!  I  wonder  that  the  boy  did  not 
repay  him  for  his  splendid  service  to  humanity. 


SCABS 

IN  C in  19 lo  thousands  of  workers  in  the 
clothing  industry  struck  for  better  wages. 
They  were  mostly  newly-arrived  immigrants, 
all  of  them  skilled  workingmen,  and  though  the 
manufacturers  were  making  millions  and  adver- 
tised that  they  employed  only  the  best  skilled  la- 
bour, the  workers,  men  and  women,  and  their 
families,  starved. 

A  shameful  system  of  task  work  was  established, 
whereby  contractors  sublet  their  work  to  sub-con- 
tractors, and  these  to  other  contractors,  and  the 
workers  were  kept  at  piece  work.  Many  of  them 
worked  from  six  A.  M.  until  midnight,  in  dirty, 
dingy  sweatshops  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  they 
received  seven  or  eight  dollars.  Even  this  small 
sum  was  not  assured.  It  happened  more  than 
once  that  the  sub-contractor,  for  whom  the  men 
worked,  simply  disappeared  with  the  pay  of  all 
the  men.  As  they  were  not  engaged  by  the  firm 
they  could  not  ask  the  manufacturer  to  pay  them, 
and  had  to  go  hungry,  they,  their  wives  and  their 
children. 

Such  conditions  lasted  a  good  many  years,  until 
80 


Scabs  8 I 

at  last,  in  19  lo,  the  men  organised  and  struck 
to  abolish  the  sub-contracting  system  and  the  piece 
work  which  led  to  it.  The  men  struck  for  a  min- 
imum wage,  a  fixed  working  hour  and  sanitary 
factory  conditions.  They  also  wanted  to  know 
for  whom  they  were  working.  To  obtain  such 
necessary  and  elementary  rights  they  were  com- 
pelled to  stay  out  several  months,  entailing  great 
suffering  from  hunger  and  cold. 

In  every  strike  the  manufacturers  use  strike- 
breakers. Sometimes,  in  America,  the  students  of 
the  colleges  go  to  scab,  to  protect  the  right  of 
free  labour,  they  claim.  In  the  clothing  industry 
skilled  workers  are  used.  The  students  could  not 
execute  the  work,  and  among  the  skilled  tailors 
there  was  not  one  mean  enough  to  scab. 

Each  charity  institution  also  keeps  an  employ- 
ment bureau.  The  men  and  women  they  send 
to  work  are  always  paid  the  most  wretched  wages, 
and  they  work  to  the  last  notch  of  their  endur- 
ance. For  work  that  has  hitherto  been  paid 
twelve  dollars  per  week  the  man  who  comes  rec- 
ommended by  the  charities  receives  not  more  than 
six  dollars.  Of  him  twice  as  much  work  is  ex- 
pected. He  is  not  supposed  to  lift  his  head 
or  speak  or  smile.  He  must  always  look 
humble,  wretched,  submissive.  He  must  make 
it  appear  that  his  work  is  worth  much  less 
than  he  gets.     He  must  look  to  his  employer 


82  Crimes  of  Charity 

as  to  the  Saviour,  because  he  has  been  sent  by 
the  charities.  The  fact  that  he  appealed  to  the 
charities  is  a  proof  that  he  is  a  failure,  also  a 
proof  that  the  man  has  nothing  to  depend  upon; 
no  brother,  sister  or  friend  that  could  help.  The 
employers  demanding  help  from  the  employment 
office  are  all  *'  subscribers  " —  they  contribute  a 
certain  sum  to  the  institution.  For  this  and  other 
services  rendered,  they  are  given  a  little  white 
plate  with  black  letters  to  nail  on  the  door,  which 
reads:  "Member  of  organised  charity."  This 
acts  like  a  talisman.  It  drives  away  the  hungry 
and  needy. 

If  you  were  to  stay  a  half  hour  In  the  private 
sanctum  of  the  manager  of  the  bureau  you  would 
hear  such  telephonic  conversation : 

"Is  this  Mr.  So  and  So?" 

"  How  is  our  man  getting  on?  " 

"  Well,  if  he  does  not  suit  you  we'll  send  you 
another  one." 

"  We  have  plenty  of  schnorrers  (beggars) 
around  here." 

"  That's  how  they  all  are  —  lazy.  They  want 
money,  not  work." 

Five  minutes  later  another  man  Is  sent.  The 
employment  office  is  not  for  the  benefit  of  the 
poor,  but  to  be  of  service  to  the  rich,  to  lower 
the  pride  of  the  workingman.  During  the  strike 
of  the  cloakmakers  the  telephone  of  the  bureau 


Scabs  83 

was  continually  ringing.  The  manufacturers  de- 
manded help.  When  any  one  applied  for  charity 
the  first  question  put  was:  "  Are  you  a  tailor?  " 
And  they  did  not  believe  the  man  or  woman  who 
said  "  No."  If  they  discovered  a  tailor  there  was 
rejoicing  in  the  Institution  and  Mr.  X.  or  Mr. 
Z.,  a  clothing  manufacturer,  was  called  up  and 
told  the  glad  tidings.  *'  We  are  sending  you  a 
man." 

Thus  does  organised  charity  work  to  break  a 
strike  of  men  who  are  demanding  living  wages; 
a  strike  where  the  poor  suffer  so  that  their  chil- 
dren may  live  a  decent  life. 

The  records  of  the  institution  were  looked  up, 
and  every  man  and  woman  who  was  thought  to 
have  had  a  connection  with  the  needle  at  any  time 
of  his  life,  or  who  could  operate  a  sewing  ma- 
chine, was  singled  out  and  the  order  to  "  cut  off  " 
was  given.  A  few  days  later,  men  old  and  broken, 
sick  and  worn  out  women  and  consumptive  girls, 
were  thronging  the  halls  of  the  institution.  They 
cried  and  begged  and  showed  handkerchiefs  red 
with  the  blood  of  their  wounded  lungs.  There 
they  were  with  their  swollen  eyes  and  hands  crip- 
pled from  the  toil  of  former  years.  But  like  the 
herd  of  cattle  from  the  slaughter-house,  serving 
only  one  purpose  as  far  as  the  man  with  the  long 
knife  is  concerned,  so  were  they  all,  slowly  but 
surely,  driven  upstairs  to  the  employment  office. 


84  Crimes  of  Charity 

from  where  they  were  escorted  to  the  shops,  to 
finish  their  days  slaving  at  the  machine  to  enrich 
the  donors  of  the  institution  and  help  in  the  good 
work  of  starving  into  submission  their  brothers 
and  sisters  on  strike  for  living  wages. 

When  I  protested  and  asked  why  this  was  done 
they  said : 

"  Is  this  institution  kept  up  by  the  poor,  by  the 
workingman,  or  by  the  donations  of  the  rich  man- 
ufacturers? "     And  then  again  I  asked: 

"  But  for  whom  is  it  kept  up  ?  "  to  which  I  was 
answered  by  sneers  and  shrugs  and  laughter. 

And  the  thousands  of  workers  knew  not  from 
where  these  poor  starved  men  came  and  they 
fought  against  them  and  blood  was  spilled  — 
blood  that  otherwise  trickled  slowly  away  on  the 
handkerchiefs,  on  the  waste,  and  was  wiped  off 
the  mouth  with  the  linen  from  which  garments 
were  manufactured. 

When  the  strike  was  at  an  end  and  the  victori- 
ous workingmen  returned  to  their  places,  the  scabs 
were  sent  away.  Again  they  were  restored  to  the 
pension  list  or  sent  to  the  sanatorium,  but  in  a 
few  months,  when  the  leaves  began  to  fall  from 
the  trees,  the  list  was  reduced  to  half  —  men  and 
women  had  gone  to  their  graves. 

But  the  charity  institutions  had  their  subscrip- 
tion list  increased,  for  the  rich  had  learned  to 
know  what  a  strong  support  they  had  in  organised 


Scabs  85 

pity.  Walk  now  through  the  clothing  district  of 
a  dty,  and  on  each  and  every  door  you  will 
see  the  white  enamel  sign,  with  black  letters: 
"  Members  of  the  organised  charities."  It  is 
written  with  blood  —  with  the  same  red,  bloody 
letters  in  which  the  sign  of  the  house  on  the  road 
is  written: 

"  Ye  poor  of  the  land  come  and  warm  your 
bodies." 

Only,  instead  of  the  stove,  there  is  a  sewing 
machine,  a  pressing  iron,  a  drilling  machine,  and 
the  devil  laughs  and  laughs  and  shows  his  white 
teeth. 

"  Has  ever  man  built  a  better  place  for  me  I  " 


SAVING  HIM 

IN  the  waiting  room  I  noticed  a  man  who  came 
a  few  days  consecutively.  Somehow  he  im- 
pressed me  as  outside  the  class  of  people 
that  apply  for  charity.  Though  he  had  passed 
the  basement  ordeal  and  had  to  get  through  with 
the  waiting  room  lesson  there  still  was  a  look  of 
independence  in  his  eyes. 

He  never  spoke  to  the  other  applicants;  he 
never  sat  on  the  benches  reserved  for  them.  More 
than  once  the  office  boy  and  other  employees  had 
told  him  to  sit  down,  in  an  imperative  tone.  At 
such  an  admonition  he  would  retreat  to  a  corner 
with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lips  and  view  the  whole 
thing  as  a  passing  ordeal  through  which  he  had  to 

go- 
He  impressed  me  with  his  indomitable  look, 
with  his  high  forehead  and  the  deep  serious  lines 
carved  on  his  face.  He  was  also  very  much  in- 
terested in  the  doings  of  the  office  and  I  often 
thought  that  he  was  trying  to  get  the  sense  of  this 
hustling  and  bustling  around  him. 

One  day  he  appeared  to  be  very  nervous.  A 
look  of  desperate  determination  was  in  his  eyes 

86 


Saving  Him  87 

as  he  came  in.  Instead  of  going  to  the  waiting 
room  he  sought  to  enter  the  sanctum  sanctorum 
of  the  Manager  and  get  an  explanation  of  some 
sort  from  him.  Repeatedly  he  inquired  of  the 
boys  how  he  could  reach  that  high  person.  With 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  the  boys  passed  him  by 
without  replying  to  his  questions.  Others  ad- 
monished him  to  go  to  the  waiting  room. 

I  approached  him  and  asked  him  what  he 
wanted. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  Manager,"  he  answered. 
*'  For  the  last  five  days  I  have  been  coming  here. 
I  have  made  an  application  eight  days  ago  and 
have  had  no  answer.  Now,"  he  said,  "  I  have  not 
applied  to  charity  eight  days  before  I  needed  it. 
It  is  my  last  resource.  I  can't  find  any  work. 
Vm  a  tailor.  During  the  season  I  have  been  sick, 
otherwise  I  would  have  saved  up  for  slack  times. 
My  wife  has  borne  me  a  child  two  weeks  ago 
and  my  landlord  threatens  to  put  us  out." 

He  used  better  English  than  the  average  work- 
man and  he  was  so  dignified  in  his  appeal,  as  if 
he  considered  that  the  charity  owed  him  help 
when  in  distress.  I  told  him  that  I  would  try 
to  arrange  that  he  see  the  Manager  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. I,  so  to  speak,  cleared  the  path  for  him. 
He  was  intercepted  by  Mr.  Lawson,  who  in  his 
cold  voice  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  The  man 
explained  his  situation.     He  did  not  cry;  he  did 


88  Crimes  of  Charity 

not  whine.  In  simple  words  he  said  what  he  had 
to  say.  Mr.  Lawson  looked  at  him  with  his 
piercing  grey  eyes.  He  seemed  very  interested 
in  the  man.  His  dignity  was  so  impressive,  so 
manly.  As  he  finished  his  tale  Mr.  Lawson  put 
his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder  and  dismissed  him 
with  very  kind  words,  saying  that  they  would  at- 
tend to  it  as  soon  as  possible. 

The  man  went  away  thanking  him.  I  saw  Mr. 
Lawson  searching  on  his  desk  and  soon  he  had 
the  man's  application.  He  studied  it  in  all  its 
details.  All  of  a  sudden  he  said  to  me:  "  You 
saw  this  man?  I'm  going  to  save  him.  I  am 
sure  that  everything  he  told  is  true,  and  I'm  go- 
ing to  save  him.  Such  men  should  be  saved. 
They  are  of  a  better  kind  and  we  are  going  to 
save  him  from  the  degradation  of  the  waiting 
room  and  association  with  the  derelicts  —  our 
regular  customers." 

"  How  much  are  you  going  to  give  him  ?  "  I 
asked,  and  at  this  moment  I  thought  very  highly 
of  Mr.  Lawson.  For  such  is  human  nature  — 
excuse  all  bad  acts  for  a  single  good  one. 

"  How  much  are  we  going  to  give  him?  "  the 
gentleman  repeated  in  an  astonished  voice  that 
had  a  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  it.  "  We  are  not  going 
to  give  him  anything.  Such  men  must  be  saved 
from  pauperism.  If  we  should  give  him  some- 
thing he'd  be  lost.     I  want  to  save  him;  do  you 


Saving  Him  89 

understand,  save  him.  I  will  give  orders  not  to 
let  him  in  the  hall  at  all  the  next  time  he  comes." 
As  I  went  out  I  had  in  my  mind  a  new  inter- 
pretation of  Christ's  crucifixion.  Pontius  Pilate 
wanted  to  save  humanity  by  crucifying  the  meek 
one. 


"  TOO  GOOD  TO  THEM  " 

ONE  afternoon  there  was  a  great  commo- 
tion in  the  office.  As  soon  as  I  entered 
I  felt  that  something  extraordinary  had 
happened. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  news  ?  "  one  of  the  em- 
ployees asked  me.  "  Something  awful  has  hap- 
pened." 

"  What  is  it?  "  I  inquired  curiously,  as  I  knew 
that  only  something  very  important  could  stir 
these  hardened  "  charity  workers." 

"  Why  I  "  the  young  lady  burst  out,  with  hor- 
ror in  her  voice.  "  Imagine  I  an  applicant,  a 
mean,  dirty  applicant,  a  pauper,  an  immoral 
woman  probably,  has  slapped  Mr.  Cram's  face." 

"Did  she?  Really?"  I  exclaimed,  and  not 
being  able  to  contain  my  joy  I  laughed  for  the 
first  time  since  I  had  crossed  the  door  of  the 
institution.     The  lady  wondered  at  my  joy. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  for  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Do  you  think  it  is  fun  to  be  hit  and  insulted  by 
an  applicant?  Mr.  Cram  is  there  the  whole  day 
listening  to  their  lies.  He  is  one  of  the  best  men 
in  the  institution,  and  along  comes  a  dirty  dere- 

90 


''  Too  Good  to  Them  "  91 

lict,  a  pauper,  and  slaps  him  in  the  face.  Do 
you  think  it's  fun?  It  shows  how  mean  the  poor 
are,  how  ungrateful,  impolite,  criminal.  You 
should  not  laugh  about  such  things,  Mr.  Baer," 
she  admonished  reproachfully. 

"  But  why  did  she  do  it?  "  I  queried.  "  There 
must  have  been  a  reason.  He  must  have  pro- 
voked her  badly.  Cram  insults  them  all,  and  who 
knows  what  terrible  thing  he  said  to  this  one !  " 

"  No,  no  1  "  the  young  lady  interrupted  me, 
and  her  face  took  on  an  expression  of  contempt 
and  every  time  she  pronounced  the  word  appli- 
cant, pauper,  or  any  other  characterisation  of  the 
poor  who  apply  to  charity,  she  hissed  it  out  be- 
tween closed  teeth,  as  though  it  were  disgusting 
and  vile. 

*'  No,"  she  continued,  "  there  is  no  reason 
strong  enough  to  excuse  her.  To  slap  the  face 
of  the  one  to  whom  you  stretch  a  begging  hand. 
Why,  that's  the  last  rung  of  the  ladder.  It  sim- 
ply shows  how  unworthy  they  are  of  charity. 
The  first  requirement  of  an  applicant  is  to  be 
humble.  I  know  whose  fault  it  is,"  she  insisted. 
"  I  know  — "  the  last  sentence  conveyed  the  inti- 
mation that  I  should  question  her,  and  I  did  so. 

"  It's  Mr.  Cram's  own  fault,"  she  said.  "  He 
is  too  good  to  them  —  that's  the  reason.  I  told 
him  so,"  she  finished,  and  sat  down  to  her  work. 

Cram  too  good  I     Great  God  I     If  they  call 


92  Crimes  of  Charity 

him  too  good,  what  about  the  others?  What 
about  they  themselves?  Have  I  not  yet  seen  it 
all  —  is  more  horror  to  follow  ?  All  that  I  had 
witnessed  in  the  basement  presented  itself  before 
me.  Cram  with  the  pipe  between  his  teeth,  read- 
ing an  application  and  putting  his  insolent  ques- 
tions, laughing  in  the  applicant's  face,  calling  them 
liars,  lazy,  immoral  women,  dirty,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it. 

"What  happened  next?"  I  asked  the  young 
lady.  She  had  evidently  felt  that  I  was  not  in 
sympathy  with  Cram's  misfortune,  for  she  an- 
swered very  brusquely : 

"  He  had  her  arrested,"  and  did  not  want  to 
talk  further.  In  vain  I  tried  to  obtain  details. 
Further  than  that  she  would  not  go. 

I  felt  that  Cram  must  have  outdone  himself  to 
have  provoked  one  of  those  crushed  souls  to  such 
an  action.  To  tell  the  truth  I  had  great  admira- 
tion for  the  woman  who  had  done  it.  It  gave 
me  greater  hope  in  the  redemption  of  humanity. 
I  wanted  to  know  all  the  details  but  could  not  get 
them  in  the  office.  Cram  himself  was  looked 
upon  as  a  martyr.  Once  when  passing  me  he 
said :  "  You  remember  what  I  told  you  the  other 
day?  They  are  a  bad  lot — and  to  think  that 
I  am  a  red  hot  Socialist.  I  hope  this  will  cure 
you  of  your  soft  heart,"  he  added,  as  he  walked 
away. 


''  Too  Good  to  Them  "  93 

It  took  me  three  days  before  I  learned  the 
woman's  address.  I  decided  to  go  and  see  her. 
One  evening  I  walked  up  five  flights  of  stairs  of 
a  dingy  tenement  house.  I  knocked  at  the  door 
and  was  soon  allowed  to  enter.  As  it  was  very 
cold  the  gas  was  frozen.  The  room  where  I  sat, 
the  kitchen,  was  lighted  by  a  candle  stuck  in  an 
empty  bottle.  There  was  no  fire  in  the  stove. 
I  did  not  see  the  children,  but  heard  their  voices 
from  the  adjoining  room.  "  Mamma,  bread. 
Mamma,  who's  there  ?  "  the  little  ones  queried. 
I  told  the  woman  frankly  the  object  of  my  visit, 
without  telling  her  that  I  was  employed  by  the 
charities.  I  only  said  that  I  had  learned  through 
a  friend  what  had  happened  and  was  interested 
to  know  all  about  it  from  her  own  words.  The 
children  were  continually  disturbing  us  with  their 
questions  and  the  rooms  were  so  cold  that  I  could 
hardly  stand  it.  I  advised  making  a  fire.  Of 
course  there  was  no  coal.  I  gave  her  some  money 
to  go  down  and  buy  some,  also  some  bread  and 
butter  and  sugar.  We  were  friends  in  a  few  min- 
utes and  she  did  not  feel  very  ill  at  ease.  When 
I  gave  her  the  few  cents  I  had  not  yet  seen  her 
face,  on  account  of  the  semi-darkness.  Only  her 
voice  was  so  well-modulated  that  a  few  words 
sufficed  to  indicate  the  personality  of  the  woman. 
Two  big,  sparkling  eyes  shone  out  from  under  her 
brows.     She  told  the  children  that  she  was  going 


94  Crimes  of  Charity 

to  buy  bread  and  coal  and  they  clapped  their  little 
hands  in  joy,  and  as  she  closed  the  door  one  of 
them  asked :  "  Did  the  gentleman  give  you 
money?     Is  he  from  the  charities?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  "  I'm  just  a  friend,"  and 
taking  the  candle  I  went  into  the  adjoining  room 
where  they  were  In  bed  covered  with  all  the  pil- 
lows and  clothes  that  the  house  afforded.  There 
were  two  children.  I  gave  them  some  chocolate 
that  I  had  bought  for  my  own  children,  and  soon 
we  became  great  friends. 

"Have  you  any  children?"  the  older  child, 
about  six  years  of  age,  asked  me  suddenly. 

"  Yes  —  I  have." 

"How  many?" 

"  Three,"  I  told  him. 

"Have  they  always  had  what  to  eat?"  the 
younger  one,  about  five  years  old,  inquired. 

"  No,"  I  said,  in  a  voice  choked  with  shame. 

"  No  ?  "  they  both  wondered,  "  and  they  have 
a  papa.  Mamma  said  all  the  children  who  have 
papas  have  what  to  eat  1  "  said  the  older  one. 
"  Yes,"  philosophised  the  younger,  "  but  he  gives 
away  to  other  children.  He's  a  bad  papa.  Our 
papa  was  not  a  bad  papa.  He  gave  everything 
to  his  children.     That's  the  kind  of  papa  we  had." 

The  mother  soon  returned  with  her  purchases, 
the  coalman  behind  her.  Soon  there  was  a  fire 
in  the  stove.     The  tea  kettle  was  set  on  the  fire. 


''  Too  Good  to  Them  "  95 

The  children  were  given  bread,  and  the  house  be- 
came very  friendly.  As  my  eyes  accustomed 
themselves  to  the  darkness  I  remarked  that  the 
rooms  were  kept  very  clean  and  orderly.  Every- 
thing had  its  place.  Some  little  pictures  on  the 
walls  were  placed  with  taste.  One  would  never 
have  suspected  the  actual  want  of  bread  on  seeing 
the  house.  The  quietness  of  the  children  soon 
told  me  that  they  were  sleeping.  I  waited  until 
the  tea  was  ready.  I  casually  learned  that  she 
was  a  country-woman  of  mine,  coming  from  Rou- 
mania  and  also  from  the  same  town.  I  even  re- 
membered some  of  her  relatives  who  were  known 
as  wealthy,  as  wealth  goes  in  that  country.  I  lit 
another  candle.  The  tea  was  ready.  We  sat 
opposite  one  another  to  drink  the  beverage.  The 
fact  that  we  were  from  the  same  country  had 
given  rise  to  a  feeling  of  friendship  between  us. 
Instead  of  talking  about  herself  she  inquired  about 
my  family  and  remembered  my  mother,  brothers 
and  grandfather. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  the  object  of  my  visit, 
so  busily  were  we  engaged  in  questioning  one  an- 
other about  relatives  and  acquaintances.  All  the 
misery,  she  had  suffered  had  not  stamped  out  her 
dignity.  Good  breeding  spoke  from  every  line 
of  her  face,  from  every  curve  of  her  body.  She 
must  have  been  about  thirty  years  old.  She  spoke 
of  her  poverty  as  of  a  misfortune  that  might  hap- 


96  Crimes  of  Charity 

pen  to  any  one.  She  was  not  ashamed  of  it,  as 
of  a  vice,  as  most  of  the  poor  are  —  as  they  are 
made  to  feel  once  they  come  under  the  influence 
of  charity;  and  this  made  my  mission  a  very  easy 
one.  As  I  write  these  lines  her  beautiful  modu- 
lated voice  still  rings  in  my  ears.  Till  late  into 
the  night  we  sat  opposite  each  other.  Everything 
that  I  had  witnessed  in  the  last  few  months  passed 
before  my  mental  vision.  Every  evil  became  ac- 
centuated, for  I  felt  that  the  woman  before  me 
must  have  been  shamefully  insulted.  A  refined, 
even  educated,  woman  of  her  temperament  would 
not  commit  violence  if  she  were  decently  treated. 
Without  her  story  I  knew  that  she  was  right, 
but  the  poison  of  mistrust  had  touched  my  heart 
also.  I  wanted  to  know,  to  question,  to  bruise, 
to  delve  Into  her  heart.  And  with  all  the  ability 
I  had  acquired  as  an  investigator  I  brought  her 
round  to  tell  me  her  story;  not  merely  how  she 
came  to  hit  Cram,  but  from  the  very  beginning, 
since  she  married. 

At  first  she  refused,  but  I  used  such  arguments 
that  she  at  last  acquiesced.  With  one  of  her  chil- 
dren, who  could  not  sleep  on  account  of  a  head- 
ache, in  her  arms,  in  the  half  dark  room,  she  told 
me  her  story  of  woe,  simply  and  with  dignity, 
and  if  here  and  there  was  a  note  of  pathos  or  a 
tear  she  restrained  it  and  went  on  bravely  to  the 
end.     And  this  was  her  story : 


"  Too  Good  to  Them  "  97 

"  Eight  years  ago,  in  Roumania,  I  married  the 
man  of  my  choice.  He  was  a  dentist.  Soon 
after  our  marriage  a  terrible  persecution  against 
the  Jews  started.  Jews  were  killed  on  the  slight- 
est pretext  and  their  murderers  were  never  brought 
to  justice.  The  parents  of  the  murdered,  fearing 
vengeance,  never  tried  to  prosecute  the  criminals. 
It  went  so  far  that  killing  a  Jew  became  a  kind 
of  sport.  We  quit  that  cursed  land  and  came 
here.  My  husband,  not  knowing  English,  could 
not  pass  the  State  Board  examination  and  worked 
clandestinely  until  he  was  trapped  by  the  County 
Medical  Association.  He  paid  his  fine  and  was 
let  go  free,  but  he  was  afraid  to  work,  and  to 
hire  out  to  others  In  this  line  Is  so  poorly  paid 
that  he  could  not  even  think  of  It.  Soon  the  little 
money  we  had  was  gone  and  to  earn  our  bread 
he  went  to  work  In  a  tailor's  factory  as  presser. 
A  child  was  born.  Not  accustomed  to  manual 
work,  and  angry  at  what  he  considered  his  degra- 
dation, he  fell  sick.  When  he  got  better  he  took 
to  drink.  Oh!  those  nights  when  he  came  home 
unable  to  stand  on  his  feet  and  crying.  I  would 
talk  to  him  the  next  day  —  cry  —  and  threaten 
to  leave  him.  He  would  promise  to  reform  and 
the  next  pay  day  he  would  come  home  drunk 
again. 

"  A  second  child  was  soon  born.  One  day,  at 
work,  he  spat  blood.     They  brought  him  home. 


98  Crimes  of  Charity 

He  went  to  bed  and  when  the  youngest  child  was 
six  weeks  old  he  died  of  consumption.  This  was 
five  years  ago.  I  was  unable  to  do  anything  to 
earn  my  living.  Some  friends  helped  me  out  for 
a  while  but  soon  I  was  forgotten.  On  account 
of  my  small  children  I  could  not  go  out  to  work. 
I  also  knew  no  trade.  A  few  months  afterwards 
I  applied  to  the  charities  for  help.  They  wanted 
to  take  my  children  away  to  an  orphanage.  This 
I  could  not  bear.  They  are  my  children  —  I  can- 
not separate  from  them.  Finally  they  agreed  to 
pension  me  —  two  dollars  and  my  rent.  From 
such  a  small  sum  we  could  not  live.  I  learned 
to  do  some  work  in  the  artificial  flower  business. 
I  took  work  home,  and  in  the  season,  working 
until  midnight,  I  would  average  about  three  dol- 
lars a  week.  The  investigator  reported  that  I 
worked.  One  day  she  met  me  on  the  street.  I 
had  just  put  on  a  new  dress  I  had  bought.  The 
next  week  my  pension  did  not  come.  I  went  to 
the  office  and  inquired. 

"  If  you  earn  enough  money  to  buy  dresses  you 
don't  need  charity,"  was  their  answer.  I  ex- 
plained to  them  that  my  other  dress  was  torn, 
that  my  new  dress  cost  only  two  dollars,  as  I  had 
made  it  myself,  and  offered  to  prove  to  them  that 
I  did  not  earn  more  than  three  dollars  a  week. 
My  pension  was  resumed,  but  ever  since  the  in- 
vestigator has  treated  me  very  badly.     She  has 


"  Too  Good  to  Them  "  99 

forced  me  to  move  every  two  or  three  months. 
Here  it  was  too  dear,  there  too  high,  there  too 
good,  and  so  on.  Last  month  she  came  to  me 
at  ten  o'clock  one  night.  As  I  was  already  in 
bed  I  did  not  let  her  in.  She  insisted  and  threat- 
ened that  she  would  cut  me  off.  This  enraged  me 
still  further  and  I  did  not  open  the  door  for  her. 
She  stood  in  the  hall  more  than  half  an  hour, 
then  she  again  knocked  at  the  door,  cursed  and 
went  away.  The  next  week  was  rent  week.  I 
received  no  money,  and  the  landlord,  who  knew 
that  the  charities  pay  my  rent,  came  and  told  me 
that  unless  he  received  his  cheque  in  two  days  he 
would  put  me  out. 

"  I  went  to  the  charities  to  ask  why  they  did 
not  send  the  money.  I  was  directed  to  a  little 
room,  on  the  door  of  which  is  written:  '  Inves- 
tigator.' Mr.  Cram  came  in,  and  seating  himself 
before  me  began  the  most  insolent  questioning 
one  could  imagine.  How  much  did  I  spend  at 
the  grocery?  How  much  at  the  butcher?  How 
much  for  dresses?  Then  he  began  to  question 
me  about  my  friends.  I  told  him  that  no  friends 
came  to  my  house.  '  So,'  he  said,  with  an  insolent 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  '  and  who  is  the  gentleman 
who  was  in  your  room  the  night  you  did  not  open 

the  door  to  Miss ? '     I  felt  my  blood  rush 

to  my  head.     It  was  too  much.     I  struck  him  in 
the  face  and  would  have  killed  him  if  I  had  had 


lOO  Crimes  of  Charity 

my  way.  They  arrested  me ;  the  Judge  freed  me, 
and  here  I  am." 

As  she  finished,  the  words  of  the  employe  of 
the  office  who  told  me  the  story  rang  again  in  my 
ears: 

"  It's  Cram's  own  fault,  he  is  too  good  to 
them." 

Great  God  I  I  felt  so  little  when  I  went  away. 
Here  was  a  real  heroine. 

"  Could  you  give  me  any  money  for  my  little 
ones?"  she  asked.  Not  a  trace  of  the  beggar 
in  her  attitude  or  voice.  I  humbly  gave  her 
what  I  could  and  considered  myself  happy  to  have 
shaken  hands  with  a  real  human  being.         ' 


ROBBERS  OF  THE  PEACE 

ONE  of  the  greatest  injustices  to  the  poor 
is  the  right  that  the  charities  arrogate 
to  themselves  to  visit  them  whenever 
they  choose.  Once  you  depend  upon  charity  all 
privacy  is  gone.  The  sanctity  of  the  home  is 
destroyed.  It  is  as  though  the  family  were  liv- 
ing in  some  one  else's  —  in  the  charities' —  home. 
The  investigator  comes  into  the  house  unan- 
nounced any  time  of  the  day  or  night,  questions 
anybody  she  finds  in  the  house,  criticises  the  meals, 
the  curtains;  goes  around  to  the  grocery,  to  the 
neighbours,  looking  for  a  "  clue  "  that  will  give 
to  the  institution  the  right  to  cease  helping  the 
particular  "  case,"  to  "  cut  her  "  as  they  say.  This 
continual  living  in  fear  of  the  investigator,  coupled 
with  the  attitude  of  the  neighbours  and  merchants 
who  have  all  been  told  that  Mrs.  D.  is  a  charge 
of  the  charities,  pauperises  the  poor  to  such  an 
extent  that  most  of  them  lose  all  sense  of  shame 
and  pride.  Mere  rags  they  are,  that  try  to  fit 
themselves  to  surroundings,  and  the  children,  oh! 
the  children  of  the  poor!  They  are  the  greatest 
sufferers  of  all.     They  are  continually  cross-ex- 

lOI 


102  Crimes  of  Charity 

amined  by  the  investigators.  Never  are  they 
trusted,  and  the  word  "  liar,"  is  always  on  the 
lips  of  their  torturers.  They  must  not  play  like 
other  children,  and  if  they  make  an  attempt  to 
live  their  young  lives,  on  the  slightest  childish 
quarrel  with  their  playmates  the  fact  that  they 
are  depending  on  charity  is  thrown  in  their  face. 
"  Charity  kids,"  the  other  children  call  them.  If 
they  claim  at  the  grocers  that  the  bread  is  stale 
the  fact  that  the  mother  depends  on  charity  and 
consequently  has  no  right  to  pride,  is  brought  up, 
and  though  they  pay  actual  money  they  are  not 
given  actual  value  for  it.  They  must  not  play 
or  stay  in  the  hall.  The  janitor  will  scold  them 
more  than  any  of  the  other  children.  The  "  Why 
don't  you  go  to  work  "  is  repeated  every  second. 
Their  ages  are  always  disputed.  An  applicant's 
child  is  always  over  fourteen  (working  age)  in 
the  eyes  of  the  neighbours,  janitor,  groceryman, 
butcher,  investigator  and  all  the  rest  of  the  tor- 
turers. 

A  woman's  pension  has  been  discontinued  be- 
cause her  children  looked  too  tuell  —  they  were 
"  the  picture  of  health,"  and  as  the  investigator 
could  not  understand  it  the  pension  was  discon- 
tinued. Another  woman's  pension,  and  many 
more  before  her  and  many  more  after  her,  was 
discontinued  because  she  dressed  too  neatly.  (By 
the  way,  the  woman  was  a  dressmaker  by  trade 


Robbers  of  the  Peace  103 

and  as  she  had  no  sewing-machine  she  did  it  all 
by  hand.)  Like  the  sword  of  Damocles  is  the 
charity  demon,  hanging  over  its  victims. 

"Who  visits  her?" 

"  Does  she  receive  men  at  night?  " 

"  Does  she  go  out  in  the  evening?  " 

"  Does  she  buy  butter?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  she  looks  in  the  mirror  a  little 
too  much?     Where  does  she  go ?  " 

"  Does  she  go  to  moving  pictures?  " 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  questions  that  an 
Investigator  asks  of  the  neighbours  and  dealers, 
and  beware  if  she,  the  applicant,  has  ever  quar- 
relled with  them.  But  more  than  all  this  is  the 
persecution  of  coming  into  the  house  without  be- 
ing announced,  so  that  the  poor  woman  might  not 
be  saved  the  pain  of  her  friends  (whom  she  does 
not  want  to  enlighten)  meeting  the  investigator. 

The  sanctity  of  the  home  is  guaranteed  by  the 
Constitution  of  the  land.  It  Is  a  law.  Are  the 
laws  different  for  rich  and  poor?  In  his  own 
house  one  may  refuse  to  receive  when  and  whom 
he  likes.  This  Inhuman  system  of  Investigation  is 
ruining  the  homes  of  the  poor,  driving  away  their 
boys,  their  daughters,  and  making  their  escape 
from  pauperism  Impossible. 

I  know  of  a  boy  to  whom  his  mother  had  given 
vinegar  to  drink  because  his  cheeks  were  too  red 
to  please  the  investigator!     I  know  of  a  woman 


I04  Crimes  of  Charity 

who  when  her  husband  died  did  not  know  that  she 
was  pregnant.  Two  months  later  she  knew  it,  but 
she  had  already  told  the  investigator  that  she  was 
not.  In  fear  that  the  investigator  would  not  be- 
lieve that  she  did  not  know  and  would  accuse  her 
of  immorality  and  cut  off  her  pension,  she  per- 
formed a  criminal  operation,  infected  herself  and 
died.  Such  is  the  dread  of  the  "  investigator," 
and  almost  all  the  applicants  are  women,  and  all 
the  investigators  are  women  —  mothers  —  sisters, 
sweethearts  —  but  their  trade  has  hardened  them 
so  much  that  judging  by  their  actions  one  would 
think  them  wild  beasts.  And  still  the  Managers 
think  that  they  are  "  too  tender  hearted."  It  is 
the  whole  system  of  organised  charity  that  is  crimi- 
nal —  debasing  both  the  giver  and  he  that  re- 
ceives, and  this  Is  not  meant  for  the  charities  of 
this  country  alone.  It  is  meant  for  the  charities 
of  the  whole  world  over. 

"  He  who  giveth  to  the  poor,"  is  no  more.  A 
sum  of  money  is  given  to  men  who  make  it  their 
business  to  make  the  life  of  the  one  who  needs  so 
miserable  that  he  should  prefer  starvation  and 
the  grave  to  their  help;  and  these  are  the  really 
worthy  ones,  while  the  successful  applicant,  the 
one  who  can  stand  the  whole  vile  process,  is  gen- 
erally the  most  miserable  creature  on  earth,  with 
no  sentiment  of  pride  or  shame,  and  often  is  not 
really  in  need.     To  their  everlasting  shame  charl- 


Robbers  of  the  Peace  105 

ties,  organised  charity,  has  created  a  new  type. 
The  professional  pauper.  These  professional 
paupers  have  a  regular  system  of  obtaining  money. 
They  know  the  names  and  locations  of  all  chari- 
table institutions,  know  what  to  say  to  one  and 
what  to  another  —  bribe  the  janitor  and  silence  the 
grocer  and  butcher.  Borrow  children  from  neigh- 
bours so  as  to  make  the  family  appear  bigger,  and 
sell  to  others,  novices,  their  knowledge,  or  work 
on  the  basis  of  percentage.  And  for  all  this  only 
Charity,  criminal,  organised  Charity,  is  to  blame. 

If  men  feel  that  through  their  fault,  or  the  sys- 
tem which  they  continue,  their  brothers  and  sisters 
suffer,  that  the  children  starve  and  perish,  then  let 
them  give  personally,  with  their  own  hands,  and 
if  they  want  to  investigate  the  truth  of  what  the 
poor  have  told  them  let  them  go  and  do  it  person- 
ally. If  they  do  not  want  to  go  then  they  shall 
not. 

But  giving  to  the  organised  charities  is  worse 
than  stealing  the  last  crust  of  bread  from  the  lost 
in  the  desert.  Man's  pride,  his  sense  of  shame  is 
his  last  property,  the  only  one  he  has  that  might 
help  him  in  his  struggle  when  he  is  down.  Or- 
ganised charity  robs  him  of  this  last  thing,  robs 
him  and  his  wife  and  his  children  and  children's 
children.  And  this  is  the  reason  why  those  who 
have  once  applied  to  charities  have  remained  their 
"  regular  customers." 


THE  SIGN  AT  THE  DOOR 

AMONGST  the  "  discontinued  pension- 
ers "  I  visited,  I  found  a  young  Jewish 
woman  with  two  children,  one  eight  and 
one  six  years  old.  From  the  reports  I  learned 
that  she  came  to  New  York  five  years  ago  from 
Russia,  had  worked  some  time  in  an  embroidery 
factory  and  had  been  disabled  in  an  accident  — 
lost  her  right  arm. 

The  report  also  spoke  of  a  fruitless  search  made 
to  find  her  husband,  who,  the  woman  claimed,  had 
deserted  her  in  Russia  and  was  now  in  New  York. 
The  investigator  claimed  that  this  was  all  a  tissue 
of  lies,  that  Mrs.  Baum's  husband  was  a  myth,  as 
the  children  whom  she  had  questioned  admitted 
never  having  had  a  "  papa." 

A  certain  Jewish  paper  in  New  York  publishes 
daily  the  pictures  of  men  who  desert  their  families, 
and  other  details  about  them.  In  the  report  it  was 
stated  that  the  investigator  asked  Mrs.  Baum  for 
a  picture  of  her  husband,  but  the  woman  refused 
it,  saying  that  she  did  not  want  to  brand  the  father 
of  her  children.  The  report  ended  with  the  re- 
mark that  the  whole  thing  was  a  tissue  of  lies  and 

io6 


The  Sign  at  the  Door  107 

demanded  closer  examination.  It  is  interesting  to 
know  that  the  report  was  made  by  a  new  investi- 
gator, working  in  a  district  formerly  entrusted  to 
a  woman  with  whom  this  investigator  was  at  dag- 
ger points,  because  of  some  love  affair.  Later  on, 
the  same  investigator  spoke  about  Mrs.  Baum's 
severe  illness  and  the  temporary  removal  of  the 
children  to  an  orphan  asylum. 

The  pension  was  kept  up  for  eighteen  more 
months,  then  suddenly  discontinued.  When  I 
read  this  I  tried  to  think  out  the  reason  for  the 
discontinuance.  Was  the  woman  placed  in  a  hos- 
pital for  incurables?  Had  she  fallen?  Had  she 
found  her  husband?  The  discontinuance  dated 
eight  months  prior  to  my  reading  of  the  report, 
and  although  I  knew  how  many  times  one  can 
change  his  abode  in  New  York,  still  I  set  out  to 
hunt  the  woman  up.  For  more  than  a  week  I 
spent  every  moment  I  could  spare  trying  to  trace 
her,  but  without  success.  In  despair,  I  wrote  ten 
letters,  the  first  three  to  the  addresses  I  knew  and 
on  the  rest  of  them  I  just  inscribed  her  name  and 
the  name  of  one  of  the  lateral  streets  of  the  lower 
East  Side.  In  the  letter  I  wrote  a  few  words 
asking  for  an  appointment  and  giving  my  address 
and  asking  for  hers.  I  hoped  that  the  woman  had 
notified  the  Post  Office  of  her  changed  address, 
and  placed  not  a  little  confidence  in  the  searching 
qualities  of  the  New  York  postoffice  employes. 


io8  Crimes  of  Charity 

To  my  great  astonishment  I  had  a  reply  the  next 
day,  and  an  address  was  given  of  a  house  I  had 
passed  twenty  times  in  my  search. 

However,  to  the  Montgomery  Street  house  I 
directed  my  steps  that  evening.  On  the  way  I  was 
overtaken  by  a  heavy  rain  and  looked  more  like  a 
wet  rat  than  a  man  when  I  knocked  at  the  door. 
I  confess  that  I  thought  more  of  getting  dry  than 
of  the  cause  of  my  errand.  Curious,  but  personal 
discomfort  makes  one  forget  all  remote  consider- 
ations; the  whole  man  is  taken  possession  of  by 
the  desire  to  get  his  bearings,  to  right  him- 
self—  much  like  the  swinging  pendulum  when 
an  accident  has  crippled  the  machine  that  sets  it  in 
motion. 

As  soon  as  I  entered  Mrs.  Baum's  house  and 
told  who  I  was,  I  took  off  my  coat,  with  her  per- 
mission, and  hung  it  on  the  back  of  a  chair  which 
I  pushed  near  the  kitchen  stove,  while  I  seated 
myself  thereon  and  tried  to  regain  my  wits. 

The  woman  was  alone.  The  children  were  at 
some  kind  neighbours.  Oh!  how  painful  it  was 
to  see  her  at  a  little  table  near  the  window 
trying  to  make  bunches  of  artificial  flowers! 
How  she  twisted  and  turned  the  wires  with  one 
hand,  with  the  left,  while  with  the  stump  of  the 
crippled  right  she  kept  the  bunch  on  the  table. 
She  had  encased  the  stump  of  her  broken  arm  in  a 
frame  of  wood  so  as  to  suffer  less  when  working. 


The  Sign  at  the  Door  109 

She  used  her  teeth,  her  chin,  forehead,  knees  and 
armpits  to  help  form  a  bunch,  and  the  work  went 
slowly,  slowly.  So  little  did  she  earn  that  she  did 
not  care  to  stop  when  a  guest  came,  though  I  felt 
right  along  that  she  was  consumed  with  curiosity. 
She  lived  in  one  room,  which  was  kitchen,  dining- 
room,  and  bedroom  for  her  and  the  children, 
and  also  workroom.  It  did  not  take  me  very 
long  to  get  dry,  but  it  took  less  time  for  my  coat 
to  catch  fire.  Before  I  had  time  to  put  out 
the  fire  the  whole  back  was  gone.  I  had  a  hard 
time  to  keep  the  woman  quiet  on  her  chair.  A  cry 
of  fire  would  have  created  a  holocaust  in  that  fire- 
trap. 

When  all  was  quiet  again,  I  sent  a  neighbour's 
boy  to  my  home  to  bring  me  another  coat,  while  I 
seated  myself  near  the  table  and  began  my  ques- 
tioning. But  I  had  no  luck.  A  knock  at  the 
door  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  a  matron 
who  immediately  asked  me  who  I  was.  I  an- 
swered her  very  politely  that  I  had  business  of  my 
own  with  the  lady  and  was  not  obliged  to  answer 
to  strangers. 

"  Who  is  that  man?  "  was  now  the  question  put 
to  the  crippled  woman,  who  was  just  twisting  a 
rose  with  her  stump. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  shrugging  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"You    don't    know?"     sarcastically.     "You 


no  Crimes  of  Charity 

don't  know  who  the  man  is  who  sits  near  you  in  his 
shirtsleeves?  " 

"  Madame,"  I  tried  to  explain,  "  I  came  here 
during  the  rain,  hung  my  coat  on  the  back  of  a 
chair.  It  caught  fire,  and  here  I  am."  But  the 
matron  would  not  hear  my  explanation.  She 
slammed  the  door  and  went  out,  cursing,  talking 
loudly  and  insultingly. 

The  woman  was  as  pale  as  death.  She  looked 
from  me  to  the  door,  and  back  again.  It  was  my 
turn  to  ask  a  question. 

"  Who  is  that  woman?  " 

"  The  investigator  of  an  institution  that  pays 
my  rent." 

So  saying,  the  woman's  head  sank  on  the  table 
and  she  wept  bitterly.  She  did  not  weep  long. 
Real  sorrow  is  deep  and  short.  There  is  no  time 
for  artistic  posing  when  the  knife  has  pierced  the 
heart. 

The  broken-down  figure  rose,  brushed  away 
some  tears,  and  asked  me: 

*'  And  now,  sir,  tell  me,  who  are  you  and  what 
do  you  want  ?  " 

She  stood  before  me  defiantly,  as  though  to  say : 
"  Make  it  quick,  you  bird  of  evil." 

"  Madame,"  I  began,  **  I  am  making  a  supple- 
mentary investigation  on  behalf  of  the  charities, 
and  I  want  to  look  into  the  reason  of  your  discon- 
tinuance." 


The  Sign  at  the  Door  in 

Hearing  this  she  retreated,  laid  off  her  defiance, 
and  sat  down.  I  took  out  my  notebook  and 
started  my  questioning. 

"  Have  you  now  an  idea  where  your  husband 
is?" 

"  Of  course  I  have,  and  this  started  the  whole 
trouble,"  she  began  with  animation. 

"How  so?"  I  asked. 

"  For  four  years  I  looked  and  searched  without 
any  result.  I  hoped  and  hoped,  and  the  charities 
helped  me  also.  I  did  not  want  to  publish  his 
picture  in  the  papers.  Then  I  had  that  accident 
in  the  factory.  Great  God  I  what  that  woman, 
Mrs.  Sol  (an  investigator)  made  me  suffer! 
Never  did  she  believe  a  word  I  said.  Called  me 
beggar,  liar,  crazy,  and  all  the  ugly  names  in  the 
language.  I  stood  it  all  because  I  hoped  that  one 
day  I  would  get  rid  of  them.  Suddenly,  one  morn- 
ing, while  going  to  work,  I  saw  him  going  into  a 
door  on  Greene  Street.  I  ran  after  him  and 
throwing  my  arms  around  him,  cried:  *  Chaim, 
Chaim.'  " 

Mrs.  Baum  sobbed  again  and  repeated  her  hus- 
band's name,  as  though  she  again  saw  him.  After 
a  few  moments  she  resumed  her  narrative. 

"  He  looked  at  me,  with  strange  eyes,  as  though 
he  saw  me  for  the  first  time.  Meanwhile  a  crowd 
had  collected.  I  still  kept  calling  '  Chaim !  don't 
you    know   me?     Your   wife,    Leah?'     'What 


112  Crimes  of  Charity 

wife  Leah?  '  he  asked.  '  Are  you  crazy?  '  Ah  I 
my  own  husband;  the  father  of  my  children,  did 
not  want  to  recognise  me.  The  crowd  grew.  I 
kept  at  him.  A  policeman  arrived  and  forced  me 
to  let  him  go.  He  quickly  entered  the  door  and  I 
ran  to  the  charities  and  told  them  my  story  and 
gave  them  the  street  and  house  number.  I  was 
told  to  come  the  next  day,  when  some  one  would 
be  sent  with  me  • —  a  special  man  they  had  for  such 
errands.  What  a  day  and  what  a  night  I  passed ! 
The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  I  was  at  the 
office.  A  young  man  accompanied  me  and  I  led 
the  way  to  the  house.  We  entered  and  the  man 
asked  the  bookkeeper  If  a  Mr.  Baum  was  not 
working  there.  He  looked  in  all  the  books  and 
could  find  no  such  name.  On  my  advice  the 
young  man  asked  permission  to  visit  the  shop. 
We  were  allowed  to  go  up.  We  looked  —  he 
was  not  there.  Yet  I  was  certain  that  I  had  seen 
him  enter." 

The  investigator  again  treated  me  to  such  epi- 
thets as  "  crazy  woman,  liar,  etc."  Coming 
down,  I  begged  the  bookkeeper  to  look  over  the 
names  of  all  the  employes  again.  I  thought  per- 
haps he  was  working  as  a  driver,  clerk  —  or  at 
some  other  job.  To  get  rid  of  me  he  asked, 
'  How  does  he  look?  '  I  had  his  picture  with  me 
and  I  showed  it  to  the  man.  He  grew  pale,  and 
exclaimed:     *  That's  our  boss,  Mr.  Ap.'     All  at 


The  Sign  at  the  Door  113 

once  he  realised  what  he  had  said  and  bent  his 
head  over  his  books.  I  was  thunderstruck. 
Here  he  was,  the  boss  of  all  this  and  his  wife  and 
children  starving  and  begging.  So  that's  the  kind 
of  a  man  he  is  ?  The  investigator  asked  the  book- 
keeper: 

"'IsMr.  Ap.  here?' 

"  *  No.' 

"  *  When  do  you  expect  him? ' 

"  *  He  is  gone  to  Europe.' 

"  *  When  did  he  go  ?  '     I  jumped  up. 

"  '  I  don't  know,'  he  answered,  and  we  could  get 
no  more  Information  from  him.  I  cried  and 
pleaded  —  it  did  not  help. 

"  We  returned  to  the  office,  where  the  Manager 
was  told  of  all  that  had  happened.  He  listened 
very  patiently  and  then  said:  '  Give  me  the  pic- 
ture —  we  will  attend  to  that  now.  Meanwhile, 
you  keep  quiet.'  Some  additional  money  was 
given  to  me  and  they  said  that  I  must  not  go  to  the 
factory.  They  would  watch  the  place  and  if  it 
was  true  that  he  had  gone  to  Europe  we  would 
have  to  wait  his  return." 

The  woman's  chest  heaved,  and  cold  sweat  ap- 
peared on  her  brow  and  face  and  arms,  as  though 
her  whole  body  were  on  the  rack.  She  rested  a 
few  minutes,  drank  some  water  and  resumed. 

"  I  waited.  True,  I  could  not  keep  away  from 
the  place.     Several  times  I  walked  past  in  the 


114  Crimes  of  Charity 

hope  of  getting  a  glimpse  of  him.  I  knew  that  if 
I  could  meet  him  quietly  and  talk  to  him  he  might 
relent.  I  might  show  him  his  children.  Perhaps 
he  had  not  recognised  me.  I  had  changed  so 
much  in  the  years  that  had  passed  since  we  had 
last  seen  one  another. 

*'  He  was  not  to  be  seen,  however.  Yes,  he  has 
grown  rich  —  very  rich  —  he  did  not  want  me  any 
longer.  He  has  changed  his  name  —  perhaps  he 
has  married  another  woman.  All  these  thoughts 
came  to  me.  My  God  I  "  The  woman  sobbed 
again. 

"  For  weeks  and  weeks  my  only  occupation  was 
to  go  from  home  to  the  charities,  from  there  to 
Greene  Street  and  back.  The  Manager  of  the  of- 
fice at  the  charities  spoke  to  me  several  times  and 
asked  me  details  about  our  former  life  and  condi- 
tion when  we  married.  I  told  him  all.  The 
truth  as  ever.  One  day  as  I  walked  down  from 
the  elevated  on  First  Street  and  Third  Avenue  I 
saw  him  again,  but  this  time  he  was  not  alone.  A 
woman  leaned  on  his  arm.  What  I  suffered  1 
What  I  endured  1  I  did  not  approach  him.  I 
feared  he  might  again  go  away.  I  ran  to  the  of- 
fice, and  told  them  that  he  was  back.  Again  I 
was  counselled  to  keep  still.  They  would  attend 
to  it.  The  next  and  the  third  day  I  asked  the 
Manager  whether  he  had  any  results.  *  No,  he 
had  not  seen  him.'     Then  on  the  fourth  day  he 


The  Sign  at  the  Door  115 

called  me  into  his  private  room  and  told  me  that 
Mr.  Ap.  denied  that  he  had  ever  married  me. 

"  *  Have  you  a  marriage  certificate  ?  '  he  asked. 

"  I  had  none.  We  were  married  only  reli- 
giously by  a  rabbi  and  had  no  certificate. 

"  *  But,'  I  said,  '  I  have  his  children.' 

"  *  He  does  not  recognise  them.  He  says  he 
knew  you  in  Russia,  true  enough,  but  that  he  never 
married  you.  When  I  told  him  your  situation 
he  agreed  to  give  you  enough  money  to  go  back  to 
Russia.' 

"You  understand?"  the  woman  exclaimed. 
"  Send  me  away  from  here." 

*'  Of  course,  I  refused  and  asked  the  Manager 
to  help  me  force  him  to  recognise  me  and  his  chil- 
dren. I  grew  bitter,  and  wept  and  cried.  He 
quieted  me  down  and  told  me  to  go  home.  That 
he  would  see  that  all  would  be  well. 

"  The  next  day  and  the  next  passed  without  re- 
sult. The  Manager  was  very  gentle,  very  nice. 
Then  on  the  following  day,  no,  on  the  next  after 
that,  he  told  me  that  Mr.  Ap.  had  agreed  to  give 
me  one  thousand  dollars  if  I  would  go  back  to 
Russia  immediately.  Of  course,  I  did  not  want  to 
accept.  He  was  my  husband,  the  father  of  my 
children.  He  had  to  admit  that,  though  I  had  no 
certificate.  I  looked  about  to  find  a  man  from  our 
village,  a  man  who  knew  him,  a  man  who  knew  we 
were  married.     I  found  none.     Then  I  went  back 


ii6  Crimes  of  Charity 

to  the  office  and  asked  for  the  photograph.  But 
the  Manager  would  not  return  it.  Mr.  Ap.  had 
taken  it.  I  cried,  I  menaced,  but  could  not  get  my 
picture  back.  Not  only  did  they  not  help  me  to 
legally  force  him  to  recognise  me,  to  support  me, 
but  they  took  away  the  only  weapon  I  had  —  the 
picture. 

"  The  Manager  kept  on  urging  me  to  take  the 
one  thousand  dollars  and  go  to  Russia.  *  It's  kind 
enough  of  him  to  do  that.  After  all,  I  believe 
him  more  than  you,  and  he  says  that  he  never  mar- 
ried you.' 

"  So  he  told  me,  to  my  face,  a  week  after  that 
I  was  *  discontinued.'     '  What  is  that?  '  I  asked. 

*  Take  the  one  thousand  dollars  and  go  away.' 

"  I  was  put  out  in  the  street  in  the  dead  of 
winter.  My  children  almost  froze.  I  ran  to 
Greene  Street.  They  would  not  let  me  in.  I 
went  to  the  charities.     The  Manager  just  told  me : 

*  People  that  can  get  one  thousand  dollars  need  no 
charity.' 

"  Finally,  a  society  paid  my  rent  and  I  was 
again  under  a  roof,  but  I  was  afraid  to  say  any- 
thing about  my  husband,  and  when  they  asked  me 
I  answered  that  he  was  dead.  How  could  I  say 
otherwise?  I  had  nothing  to  prove  my  case. 
My  one  piece  of  evidence  was  taken  away.  He 
had  changed  his  name.     I  had  no  letters,  no  cer- 


The  Sign  at  the  Door  1 17 

tificate.  Now  I  will  have  more  trouble,  through 
you,  with  that  woman  who  saw  you." 

"  And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  now?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  have  my  plans.  I  expect  some  one  from 
my  village  who  knows  him  and  who  knows  that  we 
were  married.  I  am  saving  every  cent  I  can  for 
the  steamship  agency  to  buy  a  ticket." 

She  bent  down  over  her  work  again.  Mean- 
while my  coat  was  brought.  I  took  leave,  prom- 
ised to  look  into  the  matter  and  went  out. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  in  Greene  Street.  I 
looked  up  the  number.  Above  the  door  hung  a 
big  sign,  announcing  the  business  of  the  firm,  and 
on  the  door,  near  the  knob,  was  nailed  another 
little  sign,  with  black  letters  on  white  enamel : 

"  Member  of  organised  charity." 

All  was  now  clear  why  the  woman  was  not 
helped  in  her  fight,  and  why  she  was  coerced 
through  the  "  discontinuance."  I  remembered 
the  Manager's  answer: 

"  Who  is  supporting  this  institution  ?  The 
poor  or  the  rich?  " 

And  of  course  they  had  to  work  for  the  ones 
that  were  supporting  them. 


WHAT  IS  DONE  IN  HIS  NAME? 

AGAIN,  thinking  how  charitable  institu- 
tions shield  those  who  support  them,  I 
must  speak  of  a  case  which  is  similar  to 
the  one  just  described  in  more  than  one  detail. 
The  only  difference  Is  in  the  fact  that  it  happened 
in  another  town,  instead  of  in  New  York.  I  was 
present  in  the  office  of  the  Institution  when  the 
woman  was  advised  to  accept  a  certain  amount  of 
money  and  go  to  New  York.  The  woman,  after 
suffering  hunger  and  cold  with  her  children  for  a 
long  time  finally  accepted  the  most  shameful  con- 
ditions ever  imposed  upon  a  woman,  upon  a 
mother.  She  was  compelled  to  give  her  children 
to  the  other  woman.  I  was  present  when  the  in- 
vestigator, Mrs.  G.J  herself  a  mother  of  children, 
explained  to  the  woman  that  it  would  be  best  to  ac- 
cept five  hundred  dollars  and  give  her  children  up. 
"  You  will  not  bring  them  up  as  well  as  they 
will.  They  have  money,  and  if  you  really  love 
your  children,  sacrifice  yourself  for  them."  That 
was  the  substance  of  her  argument,  and  when  the 
woman  cried  and  pointed  out  that  she  had  another 
child  coming  from  this  unnatural  father,  the  in- 

ii8 


What  Is  Done  in  His  Name         119 

vestlgator  insulted  her  most  grossly,  calling  her  a 
prostitute.  In  the  end  she  advised  her  to  keep 
it  secret,  because  if  the  other  woman,  the  new 
Mrs.  Schneider,  heard  about  it,  heard  that  the 
man  had  not  ceased  his  relations  with  his  wife,  she 
might  "  get  sore  on  the  whole  thing,"  and  though 
the  woman  had  a  good  case  of  adultery  and  bigamy 
against  her  husband  the  Institution  —  so  active  in 
other  emergencies,  such  as  strikes,  when  they  send 
out  scabs  —  did  not  do  the  slightest  thing  to  help 
the  woman  to  get  justice.  She  was  destitute,  a 
foreigner  and  was  helpless  alone.  She  haunted 
her  husband's  place  of  business,  a  restaurant,  from 
where  she  was  ejected  by  the  ever-obliging  police- 
man on  the  corner. 

To  quiet  things  the  husband  disappeared  for  a 
few  weeks.  The  restaurant  was  running  on  the 
second  woman's  name.  This  legal  nicety  closed 
the  doors  to  the  poor  mother. 

Driven  to  desperation  by  the  hunger  of  her  chil- 
dren she  sent  them  to  the  other  woman  a  few 
times  to  ask  for  food.  This  was  given  to  them, 
but  not  a  morsel  was  sent  to  the  mother.  Mean- 
while, the  charities  remained  absolutely  inactive. 
They  even  refused  to  pay  the  fare  of  the  mother 
and  children  back  to  New  York,  on  the  ground 
that  she  could  not  say  how  she  would  live  there. 
Not  a  penny  was  given.  "  Accept  the  five  hun- 
dred dollars,"  was  their  advice. 


I20  Crimes  of  Charity 

After  a  time  she  was  trapped  with  a  man  in  a 
hotel,  and  arrest  for  adultery  hanging  over  her 
head  like  the  sword  of  Damocles,  the  woman 
agreed  to  sign  papers  releasing  the  husband  from 
any  responsibility,  was  given  a  few  dollars  and  a 
ticket  to  New  York,  and  all  ended  here  to  the 
glory  of  organised  charity  the  world  over. 

Shall  I  say  that  the  whole  trapping  affair  was 
engineered  by  the  husband  and  the  second  woman  ? 
And  yet  I  have  suspicions  of  "  another  party  " 
who  helped.  I  am  very  anxious  to  find  out 
whether,  on  the  list  of  yearly  contributors,  the 
"  gentleman  "  In  the  case  has  not  increased  his 
yearly  gift  to  help  the  poor  and  needy  and  recog" 
nise  the  good  offices  of  the  institution  in  his  own 
case.  And  if  it  is  not  on  the  list,  some  one  has 
been  privately  favoured. 


THE  PICTURE 

IN  the  course  of  time  I  became  very  suspicious 
of  every  record  in  the  Charity  Institutions. 
Not  one  appeared  to  me  truthful.  I  knew  I 
could  not  trust  them  any  more  than  I  would 
trust  police  records  that  are  made  up  not  to  give 
information  but  very  often  only  to  shield  a  par- 
ticular policeman.  They  are  coloured  so  as  to 
give  the  impression  that  it  was  difficult  to  procure 
the  Information.  Often  the  detective  sent  out  to 
get  the  particulars  spends  the  time  In  a  saloon  or 
gambling  house,  then  on  a  few  meagre  details  he 
makes  up  his  report.  When  contradicted  by  the 
"  case  "  he  simply  says  the  man  lies.  The  same 
thing  happens  with  the  Investigations  of  charitable 
institutions.  Knowing  this  I  suspected  every  rec- 
ord of  being  far  from  the  facts.  In  my  investiga- 
tions I  made  it  a  rule  not  to  take  anything  for 
granted  from  the  reports,  but  to  look  Into  the  mat- 
ter myself. 

One  rainy  day  I  looked  through  the  records  and 
laid  aside  the  ones  I  intended  to  work  upon  the 
next  day.  I  decided  to  reinvestigate  cases  where 
the  pension  had  been  discontinued.     By  this  time 

121 


122  Crimes  of  Charity 

it  was  very  difficult  for  me  to  work.  The  investi- 
gators feared  me  and  had  drilled  their  "  cus- 
tomers "  to  so  answer  my  questions  as  to  conform 
to  the  report  they  had  made  on  the  case.  Wher- 
ever I  went,  under  whatever  guise,  I  was  antici- 
pated. The  people  were  on  the  qui-vive  and  I 
often  had  to  give  up  my  investigation  without 
marked  results. 

At  first  I  did  not  know  to  what  to  attribute  my 
non-success  and  the  Manager  grew  impatient  and 
spurred  me  on.  "  Results,  results.  If  you  don't 
bring  us  extra  information  you  are  of  no  great  use 
to  us."  Such  was  the  tenor  of  his  speech.  They 
needed  "  extra  information."  Right  or  wrong,  by 
hook  or  crook,  but  extra  information  to  give  an 
excuse  for  my  pay  envelope.  But  it  did  not  take 
long  before  I  learned  the  cause  of  my  ill  success. 
The  people  were  warned. 

I  knew  of  several  investigators  who  did  it  and  I 
could  have  reported  them  and  had  them  dis- 
charged, but  I  disliked  to  do  so.  So  I  reported  to 
the  Manager  that  some  one  had  warned  them  and 
that  I  was  working  on  a  clue  to  find  out  who  had 
done  it,  when  I  would  report.  Naturally  this 
made  them  stop  their  interference.  This  subter- 
fuge gave  me  time  to  do  other  work  —  investi- 
gate the  "  discontinued  "  cases.  It  was  work  for 
myself  and  I  had  no  need  for  hurry,  nor  did  I 
need  to  make  a  report  of  my  findings. 


The  Picture  12^ 

I  copied  a  few  addresses  and  some  other  par- 
ticulars and  the  next  day  I  set  out  on  my  tour. 

One  of  the  cases  that  particularly  interested  me 
was  the  case  of  a  young  Irish  lady,  a  widow  with 
four  children,  who  had  been  pensioned  for  four 
years.  The  report  of  the  investigator  was  a  con- 
tinuous description  of  misery  and  misfortune. 
One  of  the  children,  at  least,  was  always  sick.  At 
times  there  were  three  in  bed  and  the  mother  too 
was  in  an  "  awful  condition."  This  was  so  from 
1908  to  19 10,  until  the  month  of  December  of 
that  year,  the  reports  never  being  farther  apart 
than  two  weeks.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  re- 
port was  discontinued  for  two  months,  until  the 
end  of  February,  and  was  then  very  much  colder 
than  usual.  It  simply  mentioned  that  Mrs.  G. 
was  much  better  and  the  children  well.  The  next 
one,  made  in  April,  contained  an  interesting  item. 
The  older  child,  nine  years  old,  was  selling  papers. 
"  The  woman  denied  that  she  knew  anything  about 
it  but  I  saw  him  myself,"  read  the  report.  For 
May  of  the  same  year  there  were  three  reports, 
the  last  one  speaking  of  a  "  pail  of  beer  and  ciga- 
rettes, in  company  with  other  men  and  women." 
It  advises  the  application  of  the  "  test."  Then, 
after  that,   one  big  word.     "  Discontinued." 

It  took  me  some  time  before  I  found  Mrs.  G. 
She  had  moved  three  times  in  eight  months  and 
when  I  at  last  found  her  she  was  living  in  63rd 


124  Crimes  of  Charity 

Street,  in  a  house  near  the  river.  Her  dwelling 
was  more  like  the  hole  of  a  water  rat  than  the 
quarters  of  a  human  being  in  a  civilised  city  of  the 
New  World.  A  mattress  on  the  floor,  a  folding 
bed  with  torn  sides,  on  an  egg  box  a  gas  stove,  a 
rocking  chair  that  had  seen  better  days,  some  rags 
hanging  on  the  walls,  this  was  the  furniture  of  the 
house.  And  the  woman  herself.  She  fitted  excel- 
lently into  the  picture.  It  was  as  though  a  painter 
had  grouped  them  together  as  the  subject  of  a 
masterpiece  of  misery,  to  hold  the  world  up  to 
shame.  Tall  and  angular,  her  hair  dishevelled, 
her  face  unclean,  with  dress  torn,  through  which 
greyish  dirty  linen  peeped  out,  with  bare  feet  in  a 
pair  of  shoes  picked  up  from  a  garbage  can,  she 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  looked  won- 
deringly  at  me,  not  knowing  to  what  she  owed  my 
visit.  She  had  hardly  enough  strength  to  answer 
my  questions.  There  were  no  children  in  the 
house.  I  told  her  who  I  was.  Her  face  lit  up 
and  she  asked  me  about  the  investigator  —  a  man 
—  who  was  in  charge  of  the  district.  Pointblank 
I  put  the  question : 

"  How  are  you  making  a  living?  " 

"  I  am  not  doing  anything,"  she  answered. 

"  Yes,  but  from  where  do  you  get  money  to 
buy  food?" 

"  I  am  not  buying  any." 

"  But  you  don't  live  without  food  I  " 


The  Picture  125 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  away  in 
despair. 

I  waited  a  few  moments,  and  as  I  got  no  an- 
swer I  repeated  my  question.  All  in  vain.  She 
would  not  answer.  As  I  sat  there  the  door  was 
opened  and  a  little  shrunken,  dirty  boy  of  about 
eight  years,  barefoot  and  wrapped  up  in  a  pair  of 
overalls,  came  In. 

"  I  got  a  good  big  one,"  he  said,  as  he  put  a 
package  on  the  folding  bed.  He  turned  round, 
and  saw  me.  Mother  and  child  looked  at  one  an- 
other understandingly.  Without  another  word 
the  boy  disappeared.  The  mother  manipulated 
the  package  from  the  folding  bed  to  the  window 
sill. 

*'  From  where  did  the  boy  get  this  package?  "  I 
asked. 

"  From  nowhere  —  he  did  not  get  it  —  he  took 
it,  from  — " 

"  Why !  my  good  lady,  do  you  allow  him 
to  steal?  Do  you  know  where  it  will  land 
him?" 

"  In  the  hospital,"  she  answered,  as  she  gave  me 
the  package.  I  tore  off  the  paper, —  a  piece  of 
cooked  chicken,  the  remainder  of  a  steak,  three  old 
rolls,  all  of  them  with  the  stamp  of  the  garbage 
can,  with  spit  and  sawdust  on  them,  and  on  one 
morsel  the  butt  of  a  cigarette. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  they  can't  arrest  him  for 


126  Crimes  of  Charity 

that,"  pointing  to  the  package.  "  He  gets  it  from 
'  Martin's '  restaurant." 

I  tried  to  get  at  the  reason  of  her  being  "  dis- 
continued," and  after  a  time  I  had  to  ask  her  out- 
right. From  her  talk  I  understood  that  she 
wanted  me  to  believe  that  Mr.  S.,  the  investigator, 
was  very  attentive  to  her,  and  she  had  responded 
to  his  advances.  That  he  would  sit  with  her  at 
night  and  that  he  even  took  her  to  a  moving  picture 
show  once.  I  looked  at  her  and  did  not  believe  a 
word  she  said.  Mr.  S.  was  a  young  man  and  this 
woman  could  hardly  inspire  an  old  drunkard  with 
such  sentiments.  She  understood  the  reason  of 
my  apparent  doubt. 

"  I  see  you  don't  believe  It."  From  under  a 
broken  mirror  she  brought  forth  a  picture  of  a 
lovely  young  woman  of  the  pronounced  Irish  type, 
with  loose  hair  and  clear-cut  features. 

"  That's  me,"  she  explained,  "  three  years  ago 
—  when  Mr.  S.  knew  me,"  and  as  she  talked  she 
put  her  blouse  in  order  and  tried  to  look  like  the 
picture.  It  was  hard  to  find  a  resemblance,  but  It 
was  undoubtedly  her  image.  With  the  picture 
she  tried  to  tempt  me.  "  A  few  weeks  of  decent 
care  and  I  am  again  the  picture,"  she  explained, 
thinking  that  this  was  the  only  way  to  re-enter  into 
the  possession  of  the  pension. 

"  Why  were  you  discontinued?  " 

"  It's  all  my  fault.     I  had  bragged  about  it  to 


The  Picture  127 

a  neighbour  and  the  neighbour  told  it  to  another 
one  who  was  in  Mrs.  S.'s  care,  and  she  reported  it 
to  him.  But  I  got  my  lesson.  I'd  keep  mum. 
The  boys  are  out." 

From  the  woman  I  learned  how  he  used  to  get 
extra  money  for  her  every  time,  on  the  plea  that  a 
child  was  ill,  that  she  was  ill,  a  whole  traffic  in 
pity,  and  then  I  understood  the  record  and  under- 
stood the  sudden  change  of  face  and  the  discon- 
tinuance. 

I  tried  to  explain  to  the  woman  that  here  was  a 
wrong  way.  With  no  success,  however.  She 
told  me  that  the  former  investigator,  the  one  be- 
fore Mr.  S.,  was  also  very  friendly,  and  about  him 
she  never  told.  She  seemed  to  think  that  I  was 
sent  by  Mr.  S.  for  the  same  purpose,  and  again  and 
again  she  attracted  my  attention  to  the  loveliness 
of  the  picture,  and  appealed  in  its  name.  There 
must  have  been  a  trace  of  a  great  disgust  on  my 
face,  for  she  cleaned  her  hands  and  combed  her- 
self as  she  spoke.  From  the  emergency  money  I 
gave  her  a  few  dollars  and  told  her  that  I  would 
visit  her  again  and  try  to  get  her  restored  on  the 
pension  list.  She  took  the  money,  but  I  felt  that 
she  was  disappointed.  Was  the  woman  in  her 
insulted?     For  she  still  assured  me  of  her  secrecy. 

Before  I  went  away  I  learned  that  two  children 
had  not  been  in  the  house  for  the  last  four  or  five 
days. 


128  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  And  where  do  you  think  they  are?  "  I  asked. 

"  One,  I  know,  went  on  a  freight,  and  the  other 
must  be  somewhere."  At  the  door  she  again 
stopped  me. 

"  Here's  my  picture,  if  you  want  it  I  "  she  said 
pleadingly,  as  she  tended  it  to  me.  I  felt  it  would 
have  been  a  great  insult  to  have  refused  her  gift, 
to  destroy  the  hope  she  had  that  the  picture  might 
awaken  desires  and  that  these  desires  might  bring 
her  rent  and  food.  There  was  a  glimmer  of  hope 
when  I  promised  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  re- 
store her  pension. 

Instead  of  going  to  my  next  address  I  loitered 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  63rd  Street,  near  the 
river.  I  knew  that  Mr.  S.  was  in  his  district  and  I 
hoped  to  find  him.  I  was  rehearsing  mentally  the 
words  in  which  I  should  clothe  my  opinion  of  his 
behaviour,  when  all  at  once  I  saw  him  coming  from 
a  house.  I  approached  him,  called  him  into  a 
saloon,  and  without  a  word  I  showed  him  the 
picture. 

"  What  about  that?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  was  all  right  once  —  that's  how  she 
looked,  the  cat,"  he  explained  jokingly.  "  Did 
you  get  at  her?  You  —  you  I  She  was  all  right 
once,  how  is  she  now?  "  He  took  the  picture  and 
looked  at  it  with  interest,  probably  remembering 
his  debauches.     I  immediately  saw  that  I  could 


The  Picture  129 

learn  more  about  the  matter  by  handling  the  case 
dexterously,  and  I  learned,  oh !  I  did  learn  how  the 
money  of  the  poor  is  spent  —  how  payment  is 
taken  for  the  bread  and  coal  and  rent,  and  how, 
when  he  has  "  another  one,"  a  fresh  case,  the 
"  cat  "  is  simply  discontinued. 

Mr.  S.  was  a  man  of  about  forty  and  had  been 
fifteen  years  in  the  business.  He  knew  all  the 
ropes  and  finished  up  with  a  promise  to  take  me  to 
a  young  French  widow  who  was  a  "  peach,"  a  new 
case,  as  he  explained,  twinkling  his  eye  knowingly. 
He  still  looked  at  the  picture  of  the  Irish  woman. 

"  You  would  never  think  her  to  be  an  appli- 
cant. She  has  such  a  distinguished  appearance. 
Oh !  she's  a  peach  —  if  she  only  could  keep  mum," 
he  said,  referring  to  the  French  widow. 

I  offered  him  another  glass,  and  when  this  was 
consumed  I  playfully  suggested :  "  Let's  go  up  to 
Mrs.  G. —  just  for  fun." 

At  first  S.  refused,  but  as  his  eyes  again  caught 
the  face  in  the  picture  he  ordered  another  glass, 
and  then  standing  up  he  said:  "Come."  He 
did  not  know  her  address  so  I  had  to  lead  the  way. 

We  knocked  and  Mrs.  G.  opened  the  door  and 
invited  us  in.  But  S.  had  only  one  look  at  her, 
when  he  ran  down  the  stairs.  I  followed  him. 
He  was  dumbfounded  and  kept  on  repeating: 
"  Is  that  her  ?     Is  that  her  ?  " 

I  put  the  picture  before  his  eyes:     "  How  do 


130  Crimes  of  Charity 

you  like  the  change  ?  "  I  asked.  "  It's  good  charit- 
able work.  When  you  get  another  one  the  '  cat  * 
is  simply  discontinued."     I  repeated  his  words. 

A  few  months  afterwards  I  saw  the  same 
woman  in  the  street.  She  was  decently  dressed 
and  looked  much  better.  Remorse  or  fear  of  my 
denunciation  had  made  S.  provide  for  immediate 
needs.  Soon  she  was  restored  on  the  list  and 
again  the  oldest  son  was  ill  and  the  third  one  was 
in  bed  and  all  the  tricks  were  resumed  to  have  the 
institution  pay  for  the  lust  of  the  coward. 


THE  PRICE  OF  LIFE 

THE  indignities  to  which  the  poor  are  sub- 
jected in  the  offices  of  charity  and  by  the 
employes  of  these  organisations  are  of 
such  a  nature  that  it  is  my  honest  belief  that  crimi- 
nals get  more  consideration  in  the  police  station, 
before  the  judge  or  in  prison.  After  all,  what 
are  the  poor  guilty  of?  Is  poverty  a  crime?  Is 
it  not  the  inevitable  result  of  the  present  organisa- 
tion of  society?  Is  it  possible  that  in  the  present 
industrial  system  there  should  be  no  poor  and  no 
helpless  human  beings?  I  am  sure  that  the  peo- 
ple who  contribute  tens  of  thousands  of  dollars  to 
these  institutions  do  it  in  order  to  help  those  whom 
they  have  in  the  course  of  their  lives  and  business 
despoiled  of  their  right  to  life  and  its  necessities. 
A  few  scenes  which  I  witnessed  at  the  charities  will 
suffice  to  give  an  idea  of  what  the  applicants  have 
to  undergo  at  the  hands  of  the  officers  of  the  insti- 
tutions, whether  they  get  relief  or  not. 

The  sweetest  word  they  ever  use  in  connection 
with  the  poor  is  "  derelict."  A  quotation  made 
by  a  sister  institution  (A  Free  Loan  Association), 
will  give  the  essence  of  what  they  think  and  in 
what  spirit  they  act  towards  the  poor. 

131 


132  Crimes  of  Charity 

Says  the  President  of  this  institution  in  his 
Twentieth  Annual  Report: 

"  The  object  of  this  Society  is  to  loan  money 
to  those  in  need,  instead  of  giving  alms,  and  thus 
assist  respectable  people,  whose  character  and  self- 
respect  will  not  permit  them  to  receive  alms,  etc., 
etc." 

So,  none  of  the  people  who  apply  for  charity 
are  respectable  people  or  have  any  self-respect  I 
This  is  the  spirit  of  all  the  charity  workers 
toward  an  applicant.  Once  a  man  or  a  woman 
has  applied  for  help  he  is  no  longer  re- 
spectable, he  has  lost  his  self-respect.  He  is  a 
"  derelict."  It  speaks  ill  for  humanity  that  there 
has  not  yet  been  one  poor  person  who  has  taken 
revenge  for  all  the  injustices  and  insults  heaped 
upon  his  brethren  I  It  shows  how  degraded  they 
are  through  hunger.  Not  that  they  are  inherently 
coarse.  Oh,  no  I  but  weakness,  physical  weakness 
to  which  all  those  who  apply  to  charity  are  re- 
duced before  they  ever  come  to  the  office.  Once 
in  the  mill  they  are  ground.  I  will  leave  the  in- 
vestigators for  a  while  and  show  how  the  "  dere- 
licts "  are  treated  in  the  office. 

I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  they  are  fre- 
quently called  to  the  office  at  nine  A.  M.  and  left 
in  the  waiting-room  until  five  p.  M.,  when  they  are 
again  told  to  come  to-morrow,  as  the  committee 
before    which     they    were    called    to     appear 


The  Price  of  Life  133 

has  departed.  Meanwhile,  they  had  to  sit  there 
and  hear  the  insults  to  which  the  others  are  sub- 
jected, and  stay  without  food.  Mr.  Cram  once 
told  me  that  this  sitting  in  the  waiting-room  was  a 
very  good  "  test "  of  real  want,  for  it  has  hap- 
pened that  many  of  them  never  came  back  when 
they  were  again  called. 

"  Once  they  pass  through  the  waiting-room  they 
are  easy  to  manage,"  he  assured  me.  "  They  get 
their  education." 

The  waiting-room  is  the  school.  I  wonder  how 
many  of  those  who  could  not  stand  the  "  test " 
turned  the  gas  jet  on.  How  many  of  them 
jumped  into  the  river!  How  many  went  to  the 
street.  Too  bad  we  cannot  know  all  the  crimes 
of  charity. 

A  woman.  Bertha  S.,  about  thirty  years  old, 
still  good  looking,  despite  the  misery  she  has 
passed  through,  is  called  before  the  Manager. 
She  has  two  small  children  whom  she  has  left  with 
a  neighbour.  She  has  been  called  for  nine  A.  M. 
As  it  is  her  first  experience  with  the  charities  she  is 
at  the  doors  at  eight-thirty  A.  M.  When  the  doors 
swing  open  at  nine-ten  she  is  almost  frozen.  She 
had  been  waiting  a  full  half  hour.  She  shows  her 
letter  of  admission  and  is  allowed  in  the  building. 
The  whole  day,  until  four-thirty  P.  M.,  she  stands 
in  the  waiting-room,  sometimes  walking  around 
and  crying,  at  other  times  sitting  nervously  twist- 


134  Crimes  of  Charity 

ing  her  hands  in  despair  and  calling  the  names  of 
her  two  children. 

At  four-thirty,  she  and  all  the  other  women 
were  told  that  on  account  of  the  cold  weather  the 
committee  would  not  meet  that  day  and  they 
should  come  the  next  day.  The  office  boy  who 
brought  the  news  to  them  meanwhile  permitted 
himself  a  joke,  saying  "  The  show  is  off  for  to- 
night.    If  you  like  it,  tell  your  friends." 

The  next  day  the  building  was  so  overcrowded 
with  applicants  that  more  than  fifty  had  to  stand 
the  whole  day.  Bertha  S.  looked  to  be  the  most 
unfortunate  of  all.  Her  nervousness  was  pain- 
ful. At  three-thirty  P.  M.,  the  manager  began  to 
call  the  applicants  into  his  room.  Every  time  the 
door  swung  open  she  hoped  or  feared  that  now 
was  her  turn,  and  when  she  saw  each  time  that 
another  was  called  she  became  more  and  more 
nervous.  Finally,  at  five,  she  was  called  in. 
From  a  side  door  I  entered  the  room.  With  the 
Manager  sat  a  few  other  men.  They  looked  her 
up  and  down,  measuring  her  from  her  toes  to  her 
head,  as  though  she  had  committed  some  crime. 
Then  one  of  the  men,  a  well  fed,  red-faced,  thick- 
bellied  brute,  looked  in  a  record  purporting  to  be 
the  Investigator's  report  and  the  third  degree,  the 
most  Inhuman  one  I  have  ever  witnessed,  started : 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  he  yelled  at  the  woman 
without  looking  at  her. 


The  Price  of  Life  135 

"  Thirty." 

*'  How  many  children  have  you?  " 

"  Two." 

"How  old  are  they?" 

"  One  six  years  and,  one  — " 

"  You  lie  —  liars  you  all  are  —  how  old  are 
your  children?  " 

"  One  is  six  years  old  and  one  — " 

"You  liar,  you  shameless  liar,  six  years  old? 
Ha !  "  and  so  saying  this  man  jumped  up  from  his 
chair.  "  Six  years  old,  eh,  and  she  goes  around  to 
moving  picture  shows  and  stays  out  the  whole 
night.  Six  years  old? "  He  approached  the 
woman.  "  And  what  do  you  think,  do  you  think 
we  don't  know  what  you  do?  We  know  all 
right." 

"  But,  mister,"  the  woman  tried  to  speak. 

"  Keep  quiet.  Don't  talk."  This  was  another 
man's  advice,  whereupon  the  first  one  continued. 

"  Here,"  showing  her  the  record,  "  we  have  it 
in  black  and  white  —  daughter  goes  to  one  moving 
picture  show  and  the  mother  to  another  one." 

"  But,  mister,"  the  woman  tried  again,  but  the 
man  grew  angry,  his  fat  body  shook,  his  well-fed 
face  flushed  and  he  delivered  himself  of  all  the 
venom  there  was  in  him. 

"  And  you  dare  to  apply  for  charity.  A 
woman  of  your  kind,  an  immoral  woman.  And 
tell  me  and  all  these  gentlemen  here  that  your 


136  Crimes  of  Charity 

daughter  is  six  years  old.  You  are  a  liar,  a  street 
woman,  that's  what  you  are." 

At  this  point  the  woman  cried  out  and  fell  head- 
long on  the  floor.  One  of  the  other  men  looked 
in  the  record  and  remarked  that  Mr.  W.  who 
had  cross-examined  the  woman  had  made  a  mis- 
take, as  the  record  was  not  that  of  Mrs.  Bertha 
S.,  but  another  applicant's.  I  watched  the  whole 
scene  and  thought:  "  Great  God!  How  he  will 
have  to  apologise  now  I  "  But  no  —  not  a  word 
of  apology.  She  was  only  a  poor  woman,  a 
"  derelict."  I  wonder  what  the  "  gentlemen  "  in 
question,  or  any  other  member  of  that  committee 
would  have  done  to  any  one  who  would  have 
dared  to  insult  his  wife  or  sister  or  daughter  in 
the  same  manner. 

Mr.  W.  bent  down,  looked  again  in  the  record 
book,  and  after  convincing  himself,  said :  "  Yes, 
I  made  a  mistake."  Meanwhile,  the  woman  kept 
on  sobbing  bitterly. 

The  secretary  munched  at  his  cigar  rather  nerv- 
ously. 

"  Give  her  five  dollars,"  Mr.  W.  said  to  the 
Manager,  and  the  poor  woman  was  led  out,  the 
price  of  her  degradation  in  her  hand.  I  followed 
her  to  an  elevated  station.  She  sobbed  bitterly 
the  whole  way.  She  never  appeared  at  the  office 
again,  but  a  few  months  later  the  following  notice 
appeared  in  the  papers : 


The  Price  of  Life  137 

MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

CRAZED  BY  HUNGER 

Entire  Family  Has  Been  Without  Food  or  Roof  for 
Three  Months. 

As  Patrolman  B was  walking  along  H Street, 

Brooklyn,  early  yesterday  morning,  he  observed  a  woman 
and  two  children,  a  girl  of  twelve  and  a  girl  of  six,  stand- 
ing in  a  door  way  half  clothed,  each  nestling  close  to  the 
other  to  keep  warm.  Apparently  they  failed  in  this,  for 
the  mother  and  children  were  blue  from  cold  and  were 
shivering. 

The  officer  spoke  to  the  woman.  But  she  did  not 
answer.  He  spoke  to  her  again  and  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  him.     The  eyes  were  those  of  an  insane  person,  and 

the  officer  took  the  mother  and  children  to  the  S 

Street  police  station.  There  the  police  fed  the  family  and 
the  woman  gained  sufficient  strength  to  speak. 

She  told  the  police  that  she  was  Mrs.  S .     She 

was  deserted  by  her  husband  and  for  the  last  three  months, 
since  she  was  dispossessed,  she  and  her  children  lived  in 
cellars  and  doorways.  After  telling  that  much  of  her 
story  the  woman  collapsed.  She  became  hysterical,  in- 
sane again. 

The  police  began  to  question  the  elder  girl,  the  twelve 
year  old  May.  May  spoke  only  a  few  words  and  her 
mind  began  to  wander.  Like  her  mother  she  became 
hysterical. 

The  woman  and  her  two  children  were  then  taken  to 
the  Court  before  Magistrate  D .  The  mag- 
istrate at  once  saw  that  he  was  dealing  with  an  unbalanced 


138  Crimes  of  Charity 

woman  and  he  ordered  her  sent  to  the  observation  ward 
of  the  Kings  County  Hospital. 

In  the  Children's  Court,  Justice  G found  that 

the  children  were  suffering  from  starvation  and  exposure. 
They  were  sent  away  with  the  mother. 

It   looked    doubtful   yesterday   whether   Mrs.    S 

would  ever  completely  recover  from  the  insanity  into 
which  she  was  thrown  by  months  of  starvation  and  home- 
lessness. 


AIR  — FROM  FIFTH  FLOOR  TO 
BASEMENT 

THE  head  Investigator,  a  woman  who  was 
once  a  socialist,  and  considers  herself  now 
a  social  worker,  was  announced  to  lecture. 
Her  subject  was  "  Advice  to  consumptives  living  in 
a  large  city."  The  subject  was  interesting  and  the 
lecturer  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  so  I  decided  to 
go  and  hear  her.  When  the  doors  opened  the 
hall  was  crowded  with  people.  It  was  in  her  own 
district  and  she  had  decided  to  make  a  big  show. 
All  the  poor  depending  on  her  were  ordered  to  the 
lecture.     Willy  nilly,  they  had  to  go. 

An  interesting  lot  they  were  as  they  sat  huddled 
up  in  old  rags,  their  street  clothes  left  at  home, 
those  they  had  on  the  poorest  they  could  find.  All 
pale,  haggard,  hungry,  they  really  needed  the  ad- 
vice. 

Mrs.  B.  was  a  good  talker  and  had  her  subject 
well  in  hand.  Her  son  is  a  physician  and  from 
him  she  got  all  the  fine  points,  figures  and  explana- 
tions. She  started  out  very  convincingly  and 
proved  that  poverty  and  ignorance  go  hand  in 
hand  and  are  the  father  and  mother  of  tubercu- 

139 


140  Crimes  of  Charity 

losis.  She  went  on  to  explain  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  rich  and  wholesome  food  (What  irony  — 
they  that  get  two  or  three  dollars  a  week  shall 
have  rich  and  wholesome  food!),  diversion,  quiet, 
and  above  all  "  Air,  fresh  air  all  the  time  —  Live 
on  the  top  floor,  do  not  mind  the  few  stairs  more  I 
Sleep  on  the  roof  in  the  summer,  and  keep  your 
windows  open  I  For  God's  sake  keep  your  win- 
dows open!  .  .  .  Let  the  sunshine  clean  your 
room  —  Light  and  air  are  the  greatest  enemies  of 
microbes  and  tuberculosis  and  the  greatest  friend 
of  man,  especially  the  one  touched  with  the  white 
plague.  Breathe,  breathe  every  time  you  get  a 
chance.  Purify  your  lungs  and  keep  under  God's 
blue  roof  the  greater  part  of  your  time." 

Thus  she  finished.  There  was  the  usual  ap- 
plause and  the  usual  questions  by  some  outsiders, 
and  that  was  all.  At  the  finish  we  walked  to- 
gether, Mrs.  B.  and  I,  for  a  half  hour  and  we 
spoke  about  the  poor  and  their  condition,  about 
the  iniquity  of  the  present  system,  and  her  former 
work  for  Socialism,  and  she  told  me  how  she 
had  pawned  her  watch  and  chain  to  pay  the 
printers  that  were  setting  up  the  first  Socialist 
weekly.  Naturally  I  was  astonished  to  hear  that. 
I  knew  that  she  was  one  of  the  most  cruel  ques- 
tioners at  the  office.  If  something  was  to  be 
found  out  she  was  appealed  to.  She  had  a  heart 
of  stone,  of  granite,  and  her  sensuous  mouth  could 


Air  —  From  Fifth  Floor  to  Basement     141 

assume  a  smile  that  set  the  poor  applicant  trem- 
bling. 

"And  where  is  he  now,  your  husband?  Do 
you  think  that  I  am  such  a  fool  as  to  believe  a 
single  word  of  what  you  say?"  And  when  the 
woman  would  cry  she  would  say  "  Rot,  rot,  rub- 
bish. I  am  too  old  in  the  business."  Such  was 
her  attitude.  How  could  she  be  so  sincere  when 
she  spoke  to  others?  How  could  she  pawn  her 
watch  for  a  struggling  Socialist  paper?  Was  she 
once  better,  had  her  work  killed  her  heart?  Thus 
was  I  thinking  when  I  left  her,  and  was  already 
trying  to  excuse  her  because  I  found  that  I  too 
had,  in  my  work  for  the  Charity  Institution,  lost 
a  good  deal  of  my  faith  in  mankind. 

Some  weeks  afterwards,  I  was  investigating  the 
case  of  a  tailor  who  was  taken  to  the  hospital  suf- 
fering from  the  white  plague.  He  had  a  wife 
and  four  children  ranging  from  three  to  fourteen 
years.  The  woman  had  applied  to  charity  and 
the  office  had  a  suspicion  that  the  man  belonged 
to  an  organisation  that  paid  a  sick  benefit  and 
was  consequently  not  entitled  to  charity.  I  found 
out,  through  the  secretary,  that  the  man  had  once 
been  a  member  but  having  fallen  in  arrears  with 
his  dues  he  was  disqualified  and  was  not  receiving 
any  benefits.  The  family  was  living  on  a  first 
floor  rear  apartment  in  Monroe  Street,  two 
rooms,  where  the  sunshine  never  comes,  with  win- 


142  Crimes  of  Charity 

dows  opening  in  the  yard,  an  ill-smelling  dirty 
yard,  and  the  people  had  no  idea  of  hygiene. 
They  never  kept  separate  the  dishes  and  pillows 
used  by  the  sick  one.  They  ate  from  them  and 
slept  on  them. 

The  children,  pale  and  sick,  three  of  them 
short-sighted,  the  mother  and  little  child  with  in- 
flamed eyes,  were  in  a  horrible  condition. 

I  immediately  advised  the  office  and  succeeded 
in  getting  the  family  moved  to  the  Bronx,  near 
a  park,  and  on  the  fifth  floor.  So  little  were  the 
children  accustomed  to  light  that  the  first  few  days 
they  felt  dizzy.  Their  clothes  and  bedding  was 
disinfected.  Hurriedly  the  family  was  put  on  the 
pension  list,  rent,  coal  and  three  dollars  per  week. 
It  was  not  much,  it  was  not  enough,  but  it  was  the 
best  I  could  obtain  for  the  unfortunate  people. 

A  few  weeks  later  the  oldest  girl  too  was  taken 
to  the  hospital  and  the  mother  was  treated  in  one 
of  the  clinics  in  the  neighbourhood.  She  ob- 
tained two  quarts  of  milk  a  day  free. 

They  had  not  been  long  in  the  country  —  four 
or  five  years;  had  previously  lived  in  a  little  vil- 
lage in  Northern  Russia.  The  man  was  a  dealer 
in  grains  there,  was  always  in  the  open  air.  The 
sudden  change  to  a  big  city,  a  sweatshop,  was  too 
much  for  him,  too  much  for  all  of  them.  Sev- 
eral months  later,  while  I  was  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, I  went  to  visit  the  family.     At  the  door 


Air  —  From  Fifth  Floor  to  Basement     143 

of  the  fifth  floor,  I  was  told  they  had  moved  away 
long  ago.  Where?  The  people  did  not  know, 
nor  did  the  janitor,  nor  did  the  neighbours.  When 
I  returned  to  the  office  I  looked  up  the  records 
and  found  their  new  address,  171st  Street.  I 
took  a  note  of  it,  and  as  my  work  brought  me 
there  a  few  days  later,  I  called  in.  I  was  aston- 
ished to  find  the  people  living  in  a  basement  — 
the  rooms  were  next  to  the  engine  room.  It  was 
a  big  apartment  house  and  the  heat  in  the  rooms 
was  suffocating. 

"Woman,"  I  cried,  "what  have  you  done? 
Why  did  you  move  from  the  other  place?  " 

"  The  investigator  told  me  to,"  was  her  an- 
swer. 

"  But  you  are  killing  yourself,  ruining  the 
broken  health  of  your  children." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  the  children 
coughed,  and  even  the  baby  had  eyeglasses  on. 
It  was  the  district  of  Mrs.  B. —  the  investigator 
who  lectured  so  well  on  tuberculosis.  I  waited 
for  her  in  the  office  and  asked  her  why  she  had 
moved  the  family  from  the  top  floor  to  the  base- 
ment. 

"  I  can't  run  up  so  many  stairs  every  day,"  she 
answered  angrily.  "  I  have  a  big  district  and  they 
all  live  on  top  floors.  Basements  are  cheaper  and 
it  is  easier  for  me,"  she  went  on. 

"  But,  Mrs.  B.,  the  whole  family  is  touched  by 


144  Crimes  of  Charity 

the  plague.  You  know  better  than  they  do  how 
necessary  it  is  for  them  to  live  in  light  and  airy 
rooms.     You  lecture  on  the  subject." 

To  all  this  the  investigator  answered,  "  It's 
easy  to  lecture  but  to  climb  so  many  floors  a  day 
is  too  hard.  Let  them  live  in  the  basement. 
They  will  not  die.  It's  not  so  terrible.  Let 
them  sit  in  the  park  ...  let  them  go  up  on  the 
roof." 

No  amount  of  talk  could  persuade  her  that  it 
was  dangerous  for  the  people  to  live,  eat,  sleep 
in  the  basement,  and  when  I  had  succeeded  in 
convincing  the  manager  that  a  change  should  be 
made,  and  I  called  on  the  woman,  she  was  already 
so  drilled  by  the  investigator  that  she  claimed  her 
legs  hurt  her  and  her  heart  was  weak  and  I  had 
to  give  it  up.  She  would  not  move  from  the  base- 
ment. 

A  second  child  was  taken  to  the  hospital  in  a 
few  months,  but  as  a  recompense  for  the  mother's 
good  behaviour  the  investigator  did  not,  as  usual, 
reduce  the  pension  of  the  family. 

The  father  died,  the  two  older  girls  died,  the 
mother  with  the  other  children  returned  to  Russia 
to  live  ...  to  die. 


THE  INVESTIGATORS 

UP  to  now  I  have  said  so  much  about  the 
heartlessness  of  the  investigators  that 
naturally  the  question  arises:  *'  If  they 
were  good-hearted  women,  and  if  the  men  in 
charge  of  the  charities  were  better  men,  would 
that  solve  the  problem  of  charity?  " 

No.  It's  not  their  fault.  The  system  of  or- 
ganised charity  is  such  that  they  must  inevitably 
become  as  they  are  after  a  few  months'  work. 
Almost  all  of  the  women  investigators  and  other 
employes  of  the  institutions  are  recruited  from  the 
impoverished  middle  class.  To  obtain  a  position 
what  is  commonly  called  "  pull  "  is  absolutely  nec- 
essary. As  a  rule  these  people  have  never  known 
any  want  —  real  privation.  At  first,  when  they 
see  poverty  in  all  its  ugliness  they  get  excited,  run 
to  the  office  and  make  a  terrible  report,  advising 
relief  in  heartrending  sentences.  They  imagine 
that  their  will  will  immediately  be  carried  out  and 
that  their  mission  is  a  very  high  one.  But  when 
the  Manager  calls  them  into  his  office  and  proves 
to  them  that  they  have  been  lied  to  and  deceived; 
that  the  pauper  is  a  habitual  liar;  that  you  cannot 
believe  a  single  word  they  say ;  when  he  tells  them 

I4S 


146  Crimes  of  Charity 

that  if  they  do  not  prove  more  adroit  the  next 
time  their  position  is  not  suited  to  them,  then 
they  look  at  the  poor  with  other  eyes.  He  or 
she  is  no  more  a  subject  for  pity,  a  wreck  that 
has  to  be  pulled  ashore.  It  is  bread  and  butter 
for  herself.  If  she  allows  herself  to  be  deceived 
by  an  applicant  she  endangers  her  own  position. 

All  the  investigators  fear  poverty,  fear  it  be- 
cause they  know  how  terrible  it  is,  that  it  is  a 
crime.  Not  a  word  of  the  poor  is  believed.  Her 
next  report  will  be  a  tissue  of  lies  and  accusations, 
viz.: 

"  The  family  has  rich  connections  from  whom 
they  get  help.  From  the  grocer,  butcher  and 
baker  I  have  learned  that  the  family  spends  more 
than  is  necessary."  If  the  applicant  is  a  widow 
and  young  she  inserts  that  neighbours  doubt  her 
morality;  that  she  stays  out  late  at  night,  etc.,  etc., 
and  she  closes  her  report  with  the  observation 
that  the  applicant  is  unworthy  and  undeserving 
of  charity.  This  she  does  because  she  has  learned 
that  she  is  not  to  advise  to  give,  but  that  she  is 
paid  to  find  out  reasons  and  excuses  why  help 
should  not  be  given. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  course  of  the  work  the 
investigators  find  cases  where  the  organisations 
are  deceived,  but  this  makes  them  so  suspicious 
that  if  one  were  to  take  their  word  for  it  help 
would  never  be  extended  to  an  applicant. 


The  Investigators  147 

Then,  another  reason  for  her  stony-heartedness 
is  the  continual  sight  of  poverty.  After  a  time 
she  gets  so  accustomed  to  it  that  nothing  shocks 
her.  It  is  like  a  surgeon  in  a  hospital  who  be- 
comes so  hardened  that  the  amputation  of  an  arm 
or  leg  is  nothing  —  a  trifle. 

The  poor  represent  so  much  material.  One 
sews  aprons  and  shirtwaists  for  a  living;  she,  the 
investigator,  visits  the  poor.  The  hangman  too 
makes  a  living!  It's  all  business.  There  can  be 
no  love  in  such  work.  The  men  and  women  in 
charge  of  it  have  not  chosen  it  because  they  want 
to  devote  their  lives  to  succouring  the  suffering 
widow  or  orphan.  They  are  not  sisters  of  mercy. 
They  are  paid  to  do  the  work.  They  make  a  liv- 
ing so. 

If  the  investigators  were  superior  beings  things 
would  be  somewhat  different;  but  superior  beings 
go  into  business  nowadays.  It  pays  better. 
Some  investigators  only  get  thirty  to  forty  dollars 
per  month. 

I  have  known  investigators  who  left  their  own 
children  at  home  without  food.  They  trembled 
lest  a  mistake  cost  them  their  positions.  They 
did  all  in  their  power  to  find  out  a  reason  why 
the  applicant  should  not  receive  money  to  buy 
bread  for  her  children.  One  might  fancy  that 
were  they  investigating  their  own  cases  they  would 
still  find  reasons. 


148  Crimes  of  Charity 

Think  of  an  investigator  moving  a  consumptive 
family  from  the  fifth  floor  to  the  basement,  she 
who  lectured  on  tuberculosis:  "Light  and  air 
are  the  best  cure  for  consumption."  This  is  how 
she  spoke,  this  is  what  she  believed,  but  in  prac- 
tice! When  a  woman  has  to  climb  stairs  from 
morning  to  night,  then  her  only  thought  is  how  to 
make  her  own  work  easier;  how  to  make  a  living 
easier. 

Yes,  but  it  costs  the  lives  of  women  and  chil- 
dren. And  does  the  owner  of  mines  think  of 
that?  And  does  the  manufacturer  think  of  that? 
And  does  the  milkman,  a  devout  church-goer,  who 
baptises  his  milk,  think  of  the  children  he  is  kill- 
ing, of  the  future  generations  he  is  crippling?  And 
does  the  canner  think  of  that  when  he  allows  rot- 
ten meat  to  go  into  his  cans?  No.  They  are 
all  making  a  living  and  do  not  believe  that  animals 
should  be  killed  for  food. 

I  knew  a  young  lady  who  got  a  job  as  investi- 
gator —  a  nice  young,  sentimental  girl.  After  a 
►  few  months'  work  she  was  the  terror  of  the  poor 
and  the  pet  of  the  Manager.  She  had  reduced 
by  half  the  list  in  her  district.  From  a  hundred 
applications  she  investigated  not  ten  got  relief. 
She  would  visit  them  day  and  night  to  find  a  rea- 
son why  they  should  be  cut  off.  The  neighbours 
for  ten  blocks  around  would  know  that  Mrs.  So 
and  So  had  applied  to  the  institution.     And  when 


The  Investigators  149 

one  day  I  told  her  she  was  not  fit  for  such  a  po- 
sition because  she  had  no  heart,  and  advised  her 
to  get  a  job  at  something  else,  she  showed  me 
her  right  hand.  She  had  lost  her  fingers  in  an 
accident  at  an  embroidery  machine  and  she  had  to 
make  a  living! 

Another  young  woman,  who  was  engaged  to 
marry  a  friend  of  mine  and  who  got  the  position 
through  me,  lost  the  affection  of  her  fiance. 

"  She  has  entirely  changed  in  the  last  few 
months,"  he  told  me.  "  She  is  suspicious,  hard, 
cold  and  cynical.  Her  face  has  changed,  she 
never  laughs,  never  smiles." 

Poor  chap!  He  did  not  know  the  cause.  I 
did. 

The  work,  the  surroundings,  the  system  of  or- 
ganised charity,  unfits  them  for  anything,  and 
among  all  the  crimes  of  charity  the  one  that  stands 
out  pre-eminently  is  that  it  ruins  the  lives  of  all 
the  men  and  women  who  work  in  it.  Only  a  God 
and  an  angel  could  remain  good.  But  the  gods 
are  in  the  heavens  and  the  angels  are  crucified. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  POOR 

NO  district  of  any  big  city  in  the  world  has 
such  a  desolate  miserable  look  as  the 
"  charity  blocks  "  in  New  York.  They 
are  grouped  a  little  everywhere.  For  this,  New 
York  is  like  the  body  of  Job,  with  sores  and 
wounds  all  over. 

Around  all  the  gas  houses  near  the  river,  north, 
south,  east  and  west,  take  any  of  the  gay  streets 
of  the  metropolis.  Forty-second  Street,  Thirty- 
fourth  Street,  Twenty-third  and  Fourteenth 
Streets.  With  what  dirt  and  misery  they  start 
on  the  west,  how  they  get  brighter  and  gayer  to- 
wards the  middle,  on  Seventh  Avenue,  how  they 
reach  the  climax  at  Fifth  Avenue,  and  how  the 
Third  Avenue  elevated  in  the  east  and  Ninth 
Avenue  elevated  in  the  west  cuts  off  the  ugly  part 
of  the  city,  like  the  butcher  who  trims  around  the 
meat.  The  cheap  tallow  for  the  poor  and  the 
centre  piece  for  the  rich,  and  all  comes  from  one 
and  the  same  animal.  Just  as  the  meat,  in  pro- 
portion to  its  nutrition,  costs  the  poor  dearer  than 
the  rich,  so  do  the  apartments  of  the  poor  cost 
more  than  the  Fifth  Avenue  houses,  taking  into 

150 


The  Children  of  the  Poor  151 

consideration  the  comfort  of  the  latter.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  it  is  well  known  that  Cherry,  Henry, 
Monroe  and  Hester  Street  properties  are  more 
profitable,  proportionately  to  the  money  invested, 
than  Fifth  Avenue  apartments.  No  vacant  house 
is  to  be  seen  around  the  celebrated  "  lung  blocks." 
The  terrible  stench  coming  from  across  the  river, 
where  the  garbage  of  the  city  Is  dumped,  has  killed 
the  sense  of  smell  of  the  poor  wretches  living 
there.  They  wonder  at  you  when  you  keep  hand- 
kerchief to  your  nose  while  passing.  It  is  an  or- 
deal to  pass  along  Avenue  A  between  Twenty-fifth 
and  Thirty-fourth  Streets.  The  poisonous  gas 
combines  with  the  stench  of  the  slaughter  house, 
and  the  piled  up  garbage  in  the  river.  Still  the 
streets  are  full  of  children,  playing,  and  God  only 
knows  why  the  poor  have  so  many  children. 

My  work  brought  me  into  daily  contact  with 
the  children.  "  The  nutty  scribbler,"  they  called 
me,  the  Italian  boys  pronouncing  my  title  with 
their  peculiar  accent;  the  Russian  with  theirs  and 
the  Jewish  boys  translating  It  altogether  into  their 
idiom.  Poor,  underfed  and  oversmart  children; 
ready-witted  and  half-witted.  Child  and  old  man. 
Buying  sour  pickles  Instead  of  bread  when  they 
get  a  penny,  ready  to  do  anything  for  a  puff  from 
a  cigarette.  Their  ideal  is  not  to  become  a  work- 
ingman.  They  know  too  well  where  that  leads. 
Kid  Herman,  Kid  Twist  and  Red  Larry  are  their 


1^2  Crimes  of  Charity 

heroes,  and  in  childish  contradiction,  the  police- 
man is  their  idol.  How  they  swarm  around  a 
newspaper  when  there  is  "  anything  "  in  it.  An 
interesting  murder  case,  a  robbery,  a  street  shoot- 
ing, these  are  the  sensations  of  their  lives. 
When  the  father  comes  home  drunk  they  envy 
him  and  will  soon  imitate  him.  They  help  the 
burglars  hide,  and  chase  the  pickpocket  over  the 
roofs,  together  with  the  detectives,  giving  advice 
in  turn  to  the  hunted  how  to  escape  and  to  the 
policeman  how  to  catch  him;  rejoicing  when  the 
bad  one  has  escaped  and  booing  him  along  the 
street  when  he  is  handcuffed.  And  every  year 
their  domain  extends  a  little  further  until  it  ap- 
proaches the  rich.  A  block  from  Riverside  drive 
and  two  from  Fifth  Avenue  —  extending  continu- 
ally, like  a  cankerous  wound. 

One  evening  I  visited  a  family  that  was  pen- 
sioned by  the  charities.  The  father  had  just  been 
discharged  from  the  consumptive  hospital  as  cured 
and  I  was  instructed  to  see  whether  he  was  well 
enough  to  work.  A  plan  was  on  foot  to  open  a 
soda  water  stand  for  him,  to  keep  him  outdoors, 
lest  he  again  become  sick. 

They  had  five  children.  The  oldest,  a  girl,  was 
twelve  years  old.  It  was  ten  o'clock  and  I  ex- 
pressed wonder  that  the  children  were  not  in  the 
house.     The  mother's  answer  was  not  straight. 


The  Children  of  the  Poor  153 

"  They  are  playing,  they  are  visiting  neighbours, 
I  sent  them  away,"  were  her  answers  to  my  ques- 
tions. I  sensed  a  mystery  and  decided  to  wait 
until  they  came  home.  I  talked  with  the  man 
and  asked  him  his  prospects  for  the  future,  to 
which  he  hopefully  answered  that  he  was  sure  to 
get  his  old  place  in  the  clothing  factory  as  presser. 
I  questioned  him  about  his  life  in  the  hospital  and 
sought  every  way  to  prolong  my  visit.  The  mother 
was  very  anxious  to  get  rid  of  me,  but  I  stuck 
to  the  job.  About  half  past  ten  the  children  came 
in,  all  pale  and  worn-out,  hardly  saying  good- 
night, but  going  straight  to  bed. 

"From  where  do  you  all  come  so  late?"  I 
asked. 

"  From  the  street,"  the  mother  answered  and 
pushed  them  into  the  other  room.  I  felt  that  it 
was  useless  to  insist,  so  I  retired.  The  street  was 
deserted.  No  child's  play  was  going  on  and  the 
children  of  the  applicant  did  not  appear  to  be  the 
sort  who  would  stay  until  the  last.  I  walked  up 
and  down  the  block  without  meeting  a  child.  At 
the  corner,  near  the  gas  house,  on  Fourteenth 
Street,  I  met  a  policeman  and  talked  the  matter 
over  with  him. 

"  The  street  has  turned  good  these  last  few 
weeks.  Don't  know  what's  the  matter,"  was  his 
remark. 

I  did  not  agree  with  him  and  walked  up  and 


1 1^4  Crimes  of  Charity 

down  the  street  until  past  midnight,  when  I  de- 
cided to  continue  my  investigation  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

A  postcard  advised  the  office  that  I  would  be 
busy  the  following  morning  and  could  not  report. 
At  eight  o'clock  I  was  near  the  house  of  the  con- 
sumptive family.  The  children  all  went  to  school. 
Not  to  compromise  my  work  I  stayed  away  until 
noon.  The  children  came  for  lunch  and  returned 
to  school.  It  was  early  in  the  spring  and  a  glori- 
ous day.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  beauty 
of  the  field  and  forest  on  such  days,  when  the 
green  is  shooting  out  from  the  soil  in  the  gardens, 
when  the  plough  is  carving  out  slices  from  mother 
earth  and  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  trees.  I 
could  not  help  thinking  how  life  has  taken  these 
poor  people  out  of  their  homes  in  the  little  vil- 
lages of  Russia,  Poland,  Italy  and  Roumania  and 
has  crowded  them,  nay,  herded  them  together  in 
what  is  called  a  tenement  row,  to  sleep  there  and 
to  work  in  a  sweatshop  in  the  day.  How  do  they 
feel  when  they  think  of  their  homes,  when  they 
see  a  green  leaf,  when  they  hear  the  song  of  a 
bird?  When  one  has  colour  in  his  face  they  say 
that  he  still  has  the  "  home  colour."  When  they 
mention  a  feat  of  strength  or  endurance  they  add : 
"  It  was  my  first  year  here  you  know." 

At  three   P.  M.   I   was   back   at  my   post.     I 


The  Children  of  the  Poor  155 

watched  the  children  come  from  school.  With 
their  many-coloured  dresses  they  looked  from  far 
away  like  a  swarm  of  butterflies,  but  as  they  ap- 
proached they  became  less  gay,  less  expansive. 

Talk  about  the  influence  of  home  on  children! 
Among  a  group  of  children  I  spied  the  oldest  girl 
of  the  consumptive  man.  She  walked  more  slowly 
than  the  others,  as  though  she  wanted  to  retard 
something  that  waited  for  her  at  home.  Finally 
she  took  leave  of  the  others  and  entered  the  hall. 
By  and  bye  the  other  sisters  and  two  brothers 
came.  I  waited  outside.  A  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  the  oldest  girl  and  the  second  brother,  about 
nine  years  old,  came  out,  still  chewing  the  piece 
of  bread  they  had  for  tea.  They  walked  hand 
in  hand,  and  I  followed  them.  They  turned  the 
corner  and  entered  a  tenement  house  near  Four- 
teenth Street.  I  intended  to  follow  them  upstairs 
when  I  observed  many  other  children  of  about  the 
same  age  coming.  Some  were  as  young  as  six  and 
seven,  however.  Some  were  biting  apples,  others, 
boys  of  nine  to  twelve  years,  throwing  away  the 
last  bit  of  the  butt  of  a  cigarette,  with  the  regret- 
ful gesture  of  the  workingman  before  the  factory 
door  closes  on  him  and  the  bell  rings. 

"  Where  in  heaven  are  you  all  going?  "  I  asked 
a  group  of  boys. 

"  None  of  your  rotten  business,"  was  the  reply 
in  chorus.     I  withdrew  and  watched.     One  after 


156  Crimes  of  Charity 

another  they  went  up  the  stairs  until  I  had  counted 
nearly  a  hundred.  When  I  saw  no  more  coming 
I  went  up  the  stairs,  the  dark,  ill-smelling  stairs, 
until  I  reached  the  third  floor.  It  was  a  rear 
yard  house.  Dark,  dirty,  dingy.  On  the  third 
floor  I  stopped  and  listened.  A  buzzing  noise 
came  from  one  of  the  apartments,  as  though  a 
thousand  hands  were  crushing  silk  paper  between 
the  fingers.  Soon  a  door  opened.  A  little  girl 
came  out.  I  did  not  speak  to  her.  Interested, 
I  entered  the  apartment  without  knocking  at  the 
door.  In  a  room  10  x  15,  were  two  long  tables 
and  on  both  sides  sat  the  little  boys  and  girls  on 
benches.  On  the  tables  were  piled  up  all  sorts 
of  candies  and  chocolates,  which  the  children  put 
in  paper  boxes  that  lay  near  them.  So  engrossed 
were  they  in  their  work  that  they  hardly  lifted  an 
eye  to  see  who  had  entered.  A  big  burly  Italian 
met  me  and  asked  what  I  wanted. 

"Is  Mr.  Salvator  Razaza  living  here?"  I 
asked. 

"  No  Razaza.  What  you  want  come  here. 
Get  out  and  shut  up."  And  not  very  gently  he 
pushed  me  out. 

So  this  was  where  they  all  went.  So  this  was 
what  they  were  doing.  Filling  boxes  with  candy 
when  they  had  no  bread  to  eat.  Here  was  the 
place  where  they  buried  their  youth  —  the  children 
of  the  poor  1 


The  Children  of  the  Poor  157 

Outside  I  saw  an  old  man  grinding  a  hand 
organ,  but  there  were  no  children  to  dance 
around  him  on  the  sidewalk.  The  street  was 
deserted. 

"  Rotten  business,"  remarked  the  old  fellow. 
"  No  children.  Me  not  know  what  the  matt. 
All  the  bambinos  morte,  sick?  Sacre  Madonna," 
the  old  man  shook  his  head,  packed  up  his  organ 
and  thoughtfully  went  away,  carrying  his  music 
to  other  places,  where  the  children  are  not  pack- 
ing candies  in  boxes  while  their  stomachs  are 
empty.  No,  no,  old  man.  The  children  are  not 
dead.  They  never  die.  "  The  children  of  the 
poor  never  die,"  as  Mrs.  Barker  puts  it.  They 
pack  candies,  but  the  mystery  was  only  half  solved. 
The  rest  was  easy  to  get  at,  late  at  night,  when 
the  children  of  the  consumptive  man  came  home. 
They  had  to  unburden  themselves.  All  five  were 
working  there  —  piece  work,  and  they  were  mak- 
ing as  much  as  forty  cents  a  day,  the  five  of  them 
combined.  More  than  a  hundred  were  working 
in  that  factory,  while  many  other  hundreds  of 
children  worked  in  other  factories  which  had 
of  late  started  in  the  neighbourhood.  Willow 
plumes,  artificial  flowers  and  packing  candies  were 
the  chief  trades,  while  the  making  of  cigarettes 
and  labelling  of  patent  medicine  bottles  and  boxes 
occupied  a  minor  position.  On  close  investigation 
I  found  that  more  than  fifty  per  cent,  of  the  peo- 


158  Crimes  of  Charity 

pie  pensioned  by  charity  had  their  children  at  work 
in  these  murderous  shops. 

Through  a  ruse  I  obtained  entrance  to  several 
of  them.  It  is  so  terrible,  so  unbelievable  that 
I  keep  from  describing  it,  knowing  beforehand 
that  you  will  say  "  exaggerated."  One  hundred 
children  in  one  room,  windows  and  doors  tightly 
closed.  So  that  the  attention  of  people  may  not 
be  attracted  the  children  must  not  talk,  must  not 
sing.  One  little  gas  burner  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  is  all  the  light  there  is.  The  toilet  is  almost 
always  out  of  order.  The  piece  work  has  so 
sharpened  their  ambition  that  their  little  fingers 
fly  and  they  do  not  want  to  spare  the  time  for 
personal  necessities.  The  little  girls  and  boys 
strong  enough  to  keep  back  all  these  hours  soon 
get  bladder  diseases  —  while  the  weaker  ones  — 
well,  their  clothes  tell  the  tale.  But  the  ladies 
want  willow  plumes  and  artificial  flowers  and  Miss 
So  and  So  has  to  be  given  a  nice  looking  box  of 
candy  by  her  beau.  The  rich  men  have  to  get 
richer  and  give  more  money  to  the  charity  in- 
stitutions, and  hospitals  must  be  endowed  with  mil- 
lions and  the  sanatoriums  for  the  poor  consump- 
tives and  the  cheap  milk  mission  and  the  free 
doctor  —  all  this  must  be  kept  up  and  costs  money 
—  and  money  must  be  made. 

When  I  reported  what  I  had  found  out  I  was 
told  by  the  Manager  not  to  report  it  to  the  Fac- 


The  Children  of  the  Poor  159 

tory  Inspectors,  because  it  was  so  much  better  that 
the  children  should  train  themselves  from  early 
youth  to  shift  for  themselves  and  become  self- 
supporting,  and  that  ultimately  they  would  have 
to  go  to  work  —  what  was  the  difference  ?  I  was 
told  that  I  was  not  telling  them  anything  new, 
only  I  should  find  out  who  the  children  were  work- 
ing for  and  how  much  they  were  earning,  so  that 
the  pension  could  be  reduced  accordingly. 

"  But  they  are  little  tots,"  I  argued. 

"  Well,  they  are  all  older  than  you  think,"  I 
was  answered,  "  and  idleness  is  so  very  danger- 
ous." 

"  But  the  places  are  unsanitary,"  I  further  in- 
sisted. 

"  They  can't  build  special  factories  for  them,  it's 
too  costly  in  the  first  place,  and  secondly  it  would 
make  too  much  noise  and  they  would  not  be  per- 
mitted to  work." 

"  They  will  all  get  sick  —  consumptive,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  well,  it  is  not  so  terrible.  They  have 
a  remarkable  power  of  resistance,  and  if  they  do 
get  sick  —  we  will  take  care  of  them.  That's 
what  we  are  here  for.  Mr.  Baer,  you  are  an  an- 
archist." 

Thus  ended  my  Interview  on  behalf  of  the  chil- 
dren of  the  poor.  I  did  something  on  my  own 
hook. 


i6o  Crimes  of  Charity 

The  result? 

The  factories  were  moved  away  to  another 
place.  They  could  easily  do  it.  They  did  not 
build  any  special  houses  for  the  trade.  Later  on 
I  learned  that  one  of  the  biggest  concerns  in  wil- 
low plumes  did  half  of  their  work  through  out- 
side contractors  and  that  the  price  was  so  low  that 
no  woman  could  make  a  living  at  it.  The  head 
of  this  concern  is  one  of  the  biggest  philanthropists 
and  contributors  to  charities.  Still  he  might  not 
knowl  Just  as  the  young  lady  does  not  know 
from  where  her  Christmas  pleasure  money  comes 
—  and  distraction  is  absolutely  needed. 


MOTHER  AND  SON 

THERE  was  a  boy  about  fourteen  years  of 
age  who  would  daily  menace  his  widowed 
mother  with  denouncing  her  to  the  "  of- 
fice." He  terrorised  the  poor  woman  to  such  an 
extent  that  she  allowed  him  to  do  whatever  he 
wanted.  He  never  went  to  school,  he  smoked, 
he  drank,  he  boxed,  he  went  to  all  the  moving 
picture  shows,  and  all  this  money  he  obtained 
from  his  mother  on  the  threat  to  tell  the  "  office." 
The  great  sin  the  woman  had  committed  was  that 
she  had  remarried,  a  young  man,  and  the  groom 
had  decamped  with  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
that  she  had  saved  up  in  the  seven  or  eight  years 
widowhood  and  beggary.  The  whole  affair  was  a 
secret  to  the  institution,  as  the  woman  feared  her 
two  dollars  weekly  pension  would  be  discontinued 
should  they  learn  of  the  marriage. 

I  happened  to  visit  the  home  one  morning. 
The  boy  was  pacing  the  room,  almost  naked,  a 
cigarette  hanging  from  the  comer  of  his  lower 
lip,  his  face  enraged,  his  eyes  red,  and  as  he  paced 
the  room  he  cursed  the  mother,  who  was  standing 
at  the  stove  preparing  the  food.     And  the  lan- 

i6i 


j6z  Crimes  of  Charity 

guage  he  used!  I  heard  all  the  curses  of  the 
Bowery  as  I  stood  near  the  door. 

"  I'll  fix  you  up,  you  old  rag  —  cough  up  or  I'll 
smash  your  ivory." 

When  I  knocked  at  the  door  he  greeted  me  with 
"  What  d'helld'you  want?" 

He  had  his  mouth  set  for  another  greeting  of 
the  same  sort  when  I  gently  but  firmly  pushed  his 
insolent  face  back  and  entered. 

The  woman  knew  me  and  the  boy  probably 
guessed  my  occupation,  for  he  proceeded  to  coerce 
his  mother,  motioning  and  making  faces,  as 
though  to  say:  "Yes,  or  I  will  telll"  The 
mother  ignored  his  threats  so  he  casually  re- 
marked:    "  Mrs.  Carson  1  " 

The  woman  made  a  sign  that  she  would  yield 
and  the  boy  dressed  in  a  hurry. 

I  busied  myself  with  my  notebook  all  the  time, 
just  throwing  out  a  question  once  in  a  while. 
When  the  boy  was  all  dressed  up  he  beckoned  to 
the  mother  to  follow  him  into  the  other  room. 
She  did  so.  I  heard  a  suppressed  curse  and  a 
deep  sigh.  The  boy  came  out  first.  As  he 
passed  my  chair  I  stood  up  and  seizing  his  wrists 
I  asked:     "  Why  don't  you  go  to  school?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  work?  " 

No  answer. 


Mother  and  Son  163 

"  How  dare  you  insult  your  mother  the  way  you 
do,  you  scoundrel?  " 

Instead  of  answering  me  he  turned  to  his 
mother. 

"  You  squeaked  —  ha?  That's  what  you  did! 
You  old  piece  of  rot." 

Thus  spoke  a  son  to  his  mother.  I  felt  the 
blood  rushing  to  my  head  and  I  struck  the  blas- 
pheming mouth.  He  tried  to  fight  back  and  even 
took  the  pose,  but  I  was  too  much  for  him.  I 
pinned  his  arms. 

The  mother  had  not  moved.  If  anything  she 
was  rather  satisfied  that  the  boy  got  his  due. 
Again  the  boy  twisted  around,  and  looking  dag- 
gers at  his  mother  he  said : 

"  You'll  tell  tales?  Ha?  and  let  this  big  stiff 
hit  me?  And  you'll  stay  there  like  a  lamp  post? 
Ha!  that's  what  you'll  do?  I'll  croak  you,  I'll 
put  you  right  —  wait !  " 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  turned  to  me,  "that — " 

"  George,  George,"  the  mother  yelled  and  cov- 
ered the  boy's  mouth  with  her  open  palm. 

"  I  know  it  all,"  I  interrupted.  "  I  know  that 
your  mother's  name  is  Mrs.  Carson." 

The  poor  mother  looked  as  though  she  had 
been  struck  with  an  iron  bar  over  the  head. 

"  And  now,  my  boy,  give  back  the  money  you 
forced  from  your  mother  a  while  ago."     From 


164  Crimes  of  Charity 

his  pocket  the  mother  took  out  a  dollar  and  some 
cents.  I  compelled  the  boy  to  go  to  school,  men- 
acing him  with  everything  I  thought  would  scare 
him,  and  obtained  from  him  the  promise  that  he 
would  go  the  next  morning.  But  when  I  turned 
to  go,  I  saw  the  mother  shivering  as  though  in 
the  clutches  of  fever.  She  motioned  me  not  to 
go,  then  sat  down  and  wept.  Of  course  I  knew 
the  reason  for  her  tears.  She  was  afraid  her 
pension  would  be  cut  off.  She  had  lied  to  the  in- 
stitution. She  had  not  told  them  of  her  unfor- 
tunate remarriage.  She  was  afraid  of  her  son. 
Why?  Because,  fearing  that  the  investigator 
might  question  her  son  she  had  been  compelled 
to  lie  to  the  boy  and  teach  him  to  lie,  and  he  grew 
up  with  the  knowledge  that  he  could  obtain  any- 
thing he  wanted  from  his  mother  with  the  threat 
of  telling  the  truth.  The  child  grew  up  a  black- 
mailer. The  system  of  organised  charity  made 
him  one. 

And  how  many,  how  many  similar  occurrences 
have  led  to  similar  results?  How  many  men  in 
stripes  could  trace  their  downfall  to  the  "  ques- 
tion room  "  of  the  Investigator ! 

As  to  this  particular  boy  —  he  went  to  school 
for  a  few  weeks  but  his  street  habits  corrupted 
the  other  children,  and  he  was  expelled.  For  a 
time  he  sold  newspapers  on  the  streets,  then  he 
gradually  sank  lower  and  lower  and  was  later  on 


Mother  and  Son  165 

sent  to  a  reformatory  to  expiate  a  minor  offence 
and  from  there  he  will  be  discharged  a  graduated 
criminal. 

Webster  says :  "  A  university  is  an  assem- 
blage of  colleges  established  in  any  place,  with 
professors  for  instructing  students  in  the  sciences 
and  other  branches  of  learning,  and  where  degrees 
are  conferred.  A  university  is  properly  a  uni- 
versal school,  in  which  are  taught  all  branches  of 
learning,  or  the  four  faculties  of  theology,  medi- 
cine, law,  and  the  science  and  arts." 

I  know  universities  where  the  students  are  not 
instructed  in  the  sciences  and  other  branches  of 
learning,  and  where  degrees  of  a  different  kind 
are  conferred  on  the  students;  a  university  where 
other  objects  than  theology,  medicine,  law  and  the 
sciences  and  arts  are  taught. 

Burglary,  blackmailing,  safe-blowing,  murder 
and  other  applied  sciences  and  arts  are  taught 
there. 

The  professors  are  incomparably  superior  to 
the  ones  in  the  colleges;  they  are  men  with  great 
experience  and  they  impart  their  knowledge  to 
their  pupils  without  charging  fees.  They  do  it 
for  love. 

In  the  underworld  the  Reformatory  is  called 
"  the  university."  And  one  who  knew,  one  day 
remarked  to  me:  "If  they  (meaning  the  good 
citizens)    had  wanted  to  create  a  school  where 


1 66  Crimes  of  Charity 

crime  should  be  taught  they  could  not  have  done 
better  than  by  fixing  up  a  Reformatory.  They 
get  a  real  training  there,  pass  through  a  sound 
apprenticeship  and  are  masters  of  their  particular 
branch  when  they  come  out." 


CLIPPING  WINGS  OF  LITTLE  BIRDS 


'      AN] 

A 


* '      ^  ND  where  does  she  go  every  day?  " 
"  In  town." 
"  Does  she  stay  out  late  at  night?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Do  men  come  often  to  the  house?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"Is  she  sometimes  drunk?  I  mean,  does  she 
use  whisky?     Is  there  whisky  in  the  house?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Does  she  smoke  cigarettes?  " 

"  No." 

"  Is  she  visiting  the  moving  picture  houses?  " 

"  No  —  never." 

To  whom  are  these  questions  put?  To  the 
children  of  the  poor.  The  "  she  "  referred  to  Is 
the  mother,  and  the  child  Is  often  not  older  than 
eight  years,  and  sometimes  younger.  And  who 
puts  the  questions?     The  investigators,  of  course. 

On  the  Information  of  a  neighbour  that  Mrs. 
S.  "  eats  meat  every  day  and  goes  to  the  moving 
pictures,"  a  widow's  pension  was  cut  off  and  she 
was  submitted  to  the  test. 

A  few  days  later,  when  the  mattress  and  broken 
167 


i68  Crimes  of  Charity 

chairs  were  on  the  street  the  woman  was  in  the 
office  crying,  tearing  her  hair  and  beating  her 
heart.  She  begged  the  Manager,  she  begged  the 
investigator  — "  Pity  —  pity  —  have  pity  on  me 
and  my  children."  But  they  turned  a  deaf  ear. 
When  the  poor  woman  got  beyond  control  the 
janitor  was  called  to  help  and  he  made  it  short. 
He  put  her  out. 

For  more  than  an  hour  she  sat  outside  on  the 
steps.  Then  suddenly  she  got  up  and  disap- 
peared. A  half  hour  after  she  was  back  again, 
but  not  alone.  She  had  brought  her  three  chil- 
dren—  a  little  boy  of  five  and  two  girls,  one 
seven  and  the  other  nine  years  old.  She  wanted 
to  go  in,  but  the  janitor,  acting  on  the  orders 
given,  did  not  let  her  pass  the  door.  When  she 
once  had  put  her  foot  between  sill  and  door  he 
simply  beat  her  off.  Her  screams  and  cries  could 
have  melted  a  heart  of  stone,  but  not  that  of  a 
janitor  of  a  charity  institution.  They  are  picked 
men,  of  a  special  brand. 

I  spoke  to  the  investigator  and  tried  to  convince 
her  that  the  test  had  gone  far  enough,  but  she  was 
not  satisfied. 

"  That  woman,"  she  said,  "  is  acting  —  acting 
her  part.  I  am  not  going  to  be  taken  in.  No, 
she  would  not  fool  me." 

Then  suddenly  she  ran  out  and  through  the  open 
door  I  saw  how  she  literally  tore  away  the  three 


Clipping  Wings  of  Little  Birds       169 

children  from  their  mother's  hands  and  when  the 
mother  wanted  to  follow  her  little  ones  the  door 
was  slammed  and  caught  the  fingers  of  the  unfor- 
tunate woman.  She  screamed,  the  children 
screeched  and  all  the  other  applicants  ran  to  the 
door,  wailing,  crying  —  but  the  investigator  or- 
dered them  all  away.  Only  the  janitor  finally  took, 
pity  and  brought  a  wet  towel  to  wrap  around  the 
injured  hand.  However,  she  was  not  let  in. 
The  investigator  dragged  the  three  little  ones 
away  to  her  room. 

I  don't  know  why  I  was  under  the  impression 
of  seeing  a  wolf  carrying  away  three  little  chicks 
to  his  den. 

She  brought  them  to  her  room  and  when  she 
saw  me  coming  she  slammed  the  door  and  re- 
mained alone  with  them.  From  outside  I  heard 
the  children  crying  and  the  questioning  intonation 
of  their  torturer.  She  changed  her  tactics  every 
minute.  First  she  was  sweet  and  promising,  then 
loud  and  menacing,  then  again  persuading,  con- 
vincing, suddenly  threatening,  intimidating  —  a 
real  Scarpia  in  petticoats. 

Meanwhile  the  mother  stood  outside,  a  wet 
towel  on  her  arm,  crying  and  beating  with  her 
head  the  heavy  closed  door.  It  was  the  hour 
when  the  "  committee  "  was  going  home.  An  au- 
tomobile stopped  at  the  door  and  the  Manager 
majestically   descended   the    broad   stone    steps, 


lyo  Crimes  of  Charity 

seated  himself  comfortably  on  the  cushioned  seat, 
buttoned  his  coat  and  beckoned  to  the  driver.  A 
few  seconds  later  he  was  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of 
dust. 

After  all,  why  not  speak  simply?  From  where 
all  that  money?  Even  if  it  is  only  from  the  sal- 
ary, does  it  not  prove  that  he  is  getting  too  much? 
Isn't  that  money  destined  to  pay  for  other  things 
than  gasoline,  and  a  liveried  chauffeur?  Has 
any  one  of  those  that  bequeathed  a  certain  amount 
of  money  to  an  institution  written  in  his  will  that 
a  proportion  of  the  money  shall  go  for  gasoline, 
liveried  chauffeurs  and  high  salaries?  Of  course, 
a  certain  amount  of  money  is  necessary  for  ex- 
penses, but  is  there  no  reason  to  feel  that  there 
is  "  something  rotten  in  Denmark  "  when  A  Little 
Mothers'  Association  gives  out  a  report  that 
around  eighty  per  cent,  of  the  total  amount  of 
money  was  spent  on  office  work,  salaries  and  in- 
vestigators and  only  twenty  per  cent,  went  to  the 
poor?  The  reason  they  give  is  that  they  prefer 
to  spend  fifty  dollars  on  investigating  before  giv- 
ing five  dollars,  for  fear  of  giving  to  the  unde- 
serving, and  that  the  large  amount  of  money  spent 
on  salaries,  etc.,  shows  the  good  and  thorough 
work  of  the  institution.  Then  why  not  be  con- 
sistent and  spend  the  whole  amount  the  same 
way?  It  will  show  still  better  work,  greater  effi- 
ciency.    Why  not  put  up  a  sign:     "This  insti- 


Clipping  Wings  of  Little  Birds      171 

tution  is  founded  with  the  object  not  to  give  char- 
ity," or  call  it  "  The  Society  to  Prevent  Pauperi- 
sation of  the  Poor."  But  this  does  not  pay.  No 
fool  will  give  money  for  such  a  purpose.  I  fore- 
see a  day  when  the  poor  will  protest  that  their 
names  and  qualifications  should  not  be  used  to  ob- 
tain money  under  false  pretences  —  a  day  when 
the  poor  will  elect  from  whom  they  want  to  re- 
ceive charity. 

But  to  come  back  to  the  wolf.  After  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  another  young  woman,  usually  at  work 
at  the  desk,  quit  her  chair  and  went  into  the  room. 
She  was  all  excited,  as  one  might  be  before  the 
curtain  rises  on  the  scene  when  the  villain  is  killed. 
She  moved  around  on  her  chair,  bit  her  nails, 
squeezed  her  fingers,  broke  nibs  —  the  wolf 
smelling  a  rabbit.  She  at  last  could  not  resist 
temptation,  so  she  entered  the  room.  And  then 
I  heard  both  their  voices.  Another  Investigator 
appeared.  She  was  the  oldest  in  the  place,  and 
reputed  to  be  a  marvel.  (She  afterwards  ob- 
tained a  position  in  the  Juvenile  Court  — "  the 
right  place  for  the  right  woman.") 

"  What's  the  matter  In  there?  "  she  asked  the 
office  boy. 

"  Clipping  wings  of  little  birds,"  he  answered 
laconically. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  a  sen- 
tence which  so  well  characterised  the  work. 


172  Crimes  of  Charity 

The  old  *'  maman "  hardly  had  patience  to 
throw  off  her  coat  when  she  rushed  into  the  fray. 
After  a  short  lull  during  which  the  three  con- 
ferred probably,  the  old  cove  took  charge  of  one 
of  the  little  ones,  and  went  Into  another  room. 

The  whole  thing  lasted  more  than  an  hour  and 
was  given  up  as  unsuccessful.  The  children  were 
thrust  out  to  the  mother.  She  was  ordered  to 
come  to-morrow. 

The  three  women  seated  themselves  together 
and  the  younger  one,  thinking  of  the  great  ex- 
ploits of  the  police  detectives,  Sherlock  Holmes 
stories,  remarked: 

"  A  regular  third  degree." 

The  janitor,  very  interested  in  charity  affairs, 
asked:     *'  Did  you  sweat  them?  " 

The  old  "  maman  "  thought  deeply  for  a  few 
moments  then  she  exclaimed  with  feeling: 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,  they  refused  my  candy  I 
Isn't  that  a  sign  that  they  had  enough  of  it,  that 
they  get  candy  every  day?  " 

"  Of  course,"  joined  the  two,  "  it  certainly  is 
so  —  children  to  refuse  candy!  Who  ever  heard 
of  it?" 

"  When  are  they  coming  to-morrow?  " 

"  In  the  morning." 

**  Well,  I  will  try  to  help  you  in  this  affair. 
I  don't  think  they  are  deserving." 


Clipping  Wings  of  Little  Birds       173 

As  she  went  to  write  her  report  she  kept  on 
saying : 

"  A  nice  bunch  —  a  nice  bunch." 

Presently  the  office  boy  approached,  chewing 
gum. 

"  Confessed,  condemned  to  the  electric  chair?  " 
he  asked. 


THE  ORPHAN  HOME 

1WAS  ushered  into  the  private  room  of  the 
superintendent  of  the  Orphan  Home. 
After  a  few  moments'  introductory  talk  he 
brought  me  down  to  the  kitchen  —  a  large,  spa- 
cious room  with  all  the  modern  cooking  parapher- 
nalia. The  cook  presided  over  the  stove,  on 
which  were  a  dozen  pots.  Three  pale  little  girls 
were  pealing  potatoes. 

From  there  we  went  to  the  dressmaking  room, 
where  half  a  dozen  girls  under  the  supervision 
of  an  expert  were  making  dresses,  shirts,  sheets 
and  all  the  other  linen  of  the  house.  Though  it 
was  a  beautiful  spring  day  they  had  to  use  gas 
light,  the  room  was  so  dark.  The  superintendent 
noticing  my  gaze  fixed  on  the  burning  light,  ex- 
plained : 

"  It  is  not  too  dark  here,  but  you  can't  make 
them  understand  that  artificial  light  is  bad  for  the 
eyes.  It's  a  pity  to  waste  money  on  gas,  but  you 
can't  do  everything  just  right." 

From  the  dressmaking  room  he  led  me  to  the 
dining  room,  which  was  a  very  large,  light  room, 
with  one  big  white  marble  table  in  the  centre. 

174 


The  Orphan  Home  175 

Little  girls  were  busy  setting  the  table  for  the 
noon  meal.  Soon  the  bell  rang  and  a  hundred 
pair  of  tripping  feet  followed  the  call  to  lunch. 
In  a  few  moments  they  were  all  sitting  around  the 
table.  A  big  cauldron  of  soup  was  brought  and 
the  bowls  filled  with  the  steaming  food.  A  hun- 
dred little  mouths  munched  and  chattered  and 
whispered,  the  older  girls  supervising  the  younger 
ones,  the  stronger  ones  often  getting  the  slice  of 
bread  belonging  to  the  weaker. 

One  of  the  "  old  ones  "  approached  the  super- 
intendent and  told  him :  "  Clara  Morris  does  not 
eat." 

"Why?  "he  asked. 

"  She  cries,  sir,"  the  girl  answered. 

"  Bring  her  to  my  office,"  he  ordered. 

Then  he  turned  to  me  and  explained :  "  The 
new  ones  don't  assimilate  readily.  There  is  es- 
pecial difficulty  in  the  matter  of  food.  Their 
taste  has  been  spoiled  with  spicy  food  and  they 
can't  eat  the  simple,  wholesome  food  we  give  them 
here.  The  first  few  days  they  don't  eat  at  all, 
but  when  they  get  good  and  hungry  they  fall  to 
it  like  the  rest.  And  they  eat  —  oh !  they  eat. 
If  you  could  see  the  bills  for  food  for  a  month 
you  would  gasp.  A  fortune  is  spent.  The  fruit 
bill  alone  is  above  three  hundred  dollars  a  month. 
They  get  all  the  fruits  of  the  season,  but  they 
would  prefer  pickles  and  sour  tomatoes.     I  tell 


176  Crimes  of  Charity 

you  for  some  of  them  it's  lucky  their  parents 
died.  I  shudder  to  think  what  would  have  be- 
come of  them."  As  he  was  speaking  the  office 
girl  called  him  to  the  telephone.  I  went  straight 
to  the  child  who  refused  to  eat  and  asked  her  why 
she  refused  the  food.  It  was  the  child  of  an  ap- 
plicant and  she  knew  me. 

"  I  can't  eat  it  —  it  tastes  bad.  See  for  your- 
self.'» 

I  took  a  spoonful  of  the  supposed  lentil  soup 
and  tasted.  It  smelt  and  tasted  like  dishwater. 
Of  lentils  it  had  only  the  colour  and  the  name. 
Then  I  tasted  the  meat  and  the  pudding,  and  un- 
derstood why  they  had  to  be  hungry  for  a  few 
days  before  they  could  touch  it.  I  looked  at  the 
faces  of  the  children.  All  ghastly  pale,  with  bent 
shoulders  and  fallen-in  chests  and  toothpick  legs 
—  only  the  eyes  were  living,  the  feverish,  longing 
eyes  of  the  people  of  woe. 

The  children  ate  the  bread,  some  chewed  a 
bone,  alternating  with  a  bite  from  a  quarter  of  an 
apple,  the  fruit  of  the  season,  and  as  an  extra 
treat,  because  I  was  there,  two  dates  were  given 
to  each.  Once  in  a  while  a  little  tragedy  would 
happen.  A  big  one  would  take  away  a  slice  of 
bread  from  a  small  one,  and  the  protests  of  the 
robbed  were  stilled  with  threats  and  pinches. 

"When  is  your  happiest  time  here?"  I  asked 
one  of  the  girls. 


The  Orphan  Home  177 

"  Every  six  weeks,"  she  answered. 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  then  I  am  in  the  kitchen  for  two  days 
and  can  eat  as  much  as  I  want." 

Soon  the  superintendent  came  again,  and  as  he 
insisted  on  my  visiting  the  classes  while  at  work 
he  invited  me  to  lunch  with  his  family.  I  was  in- 
troduced to  the  lady  of  the  house  —  who  in  turn 
introduced  me  to  their  daughter,  a  young  Miss  of 
twenty,  with  round,  healthy  body  and  rosy  cheeks 
and  stupid  eyes.  Mr.  Marcel  talked  all  the  time, 
explaining  to  me  how  ungrateful  the  children  of 
the  poor  are.  I  was  seated  directly  opposite  him 
at  table  and  had  an  opportunity  of  studying  him 
at  close  range.  For  the  first  time  I  remarked  his 
gluttonous  lips  and  round,  protruding  belly.  He 
followed  every  plate  with  his  eyes  and  ceremoni- 
ously pushed  his  sleeves  back  before  he  carved,  as 
though  officiating  at  a  holy  rite.  The  more  he  ate 
the  more  he  wanted,  and  seeing  such  a  luncheon 
and  the  fruit  at  the  table  I  quite  believed  that 
"  The  fruit  bill  alone  was  three  hundred  dollars 
a  month." 

I  turned  to  the  girl  and  asked : 

"How  do  you  like  living  here?  " 
It  s  nice. 

"  She  is  practically  born  here,"  the  mother  ex- 
plained. 

"  Then  you  went  to  school  here,"  I  asked. 


178  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  Oh,  no  —  no  — "  all  three,  father,  mother 
and  daughter  protested  in  chorus.  "  We  would 
not  place  our  child  with  them,"  the  mother  said 
indignantly,  while  the  father,  who  was  so  shocked 
that  he  stopped  eating  his  pudding,  said  : 

"  One  is  willing  to  sacrifice  his  own  life,  but 
one  has  no  right  to  do  so  with  one's  child." 

After  luncheon  Mr.  Marcel  delivered  himself 
of  the  following  lecture. 

"  That's  the  big  mistake  of  the  people  outside. 
They  don't  seem  to  realise  that  in  an  orphan  home 
you  have  the  scum  of  the  population.  The  very 
fact  that  their  parents  died  young  and  poor  is  a 
proof  of  the  bad  root  they  grow  from.  Most  of 
the  time  the  father  or  mother  or  both  have  been 
drunkards,  sick  and  idle.  Idleness  is  a  disease 
and  an  hereditary  one.  Why  are  they  poor?  be- 
cause they  are  degenerates.  A  healthy  man  is 
never  poor.  Why  are  they  sick?  Because  they 
are  careless  and  dirty.  Why  do  they  die  young 
if  it  is  not  because  they  are  degenerates  and  care- 
less and  dirty?  We  get  their  children.  They  all 
have  bad  habits,  bad  characters,  are  insolent  and 
indolent,  and  they  all  long  for  the  street,  the  free 
street.  This  desire  for  the  free  street  is  terrible. 
We  have  here  a  splendid  garden  —  have  a  look 
through  the  window,  sir  —  a  splendid  garden  is 
it  not?  It's  my  greatest  pleasure!  They  want 
the  gutter.     We  have  a  tremendous  work  to  do, 


The  Orphan  Home  179 

and  I  am  happy  to  be  partially  successful.  We 
break  them  of  their  evil  habits,  curb  their  insolence 
and  teach  them  order  and  submission,  order  and 
submission,  order  and  submission,"  he  repeated. 
The  heavy  meal  soon  told  on  the  gentleman  and 
his  speech  lost  its  clarity  and  his  tongue  stuck  in 
his  mouth.  He  was  soon  dozing  in  his  chair  and 
I  was  saved  from  the  awkward  position  by  Mrs. 
Marcel  who  gave  me  the  freedom  of  the  place, 
while  explaining  that  Mr.  Marcel  was  working 
very  hard  and  was  always  tired  at  that  hour. 

I  went  down  to  the  garden.  There  wasn't  a 
child  there.  One  of  the  teachers  sat  on  a  bench 
reading  a  paper. 

"  Excuse  me,  madame,  but  why  don't  the  chil- 
dren use  the  garden?  " 

"  They  are  not  allowed,  sir." 
I  soon  saw  them  pass  out  from  the  refectory  to 
the  classroom,  like  little  mourners  coming  from 
the  cemetery  where  their  parents  were  buried. 
There  are  one  hundred  children,  all  girls,  between 
the  ages  of  seven  and  fourteen.  In  five  hours' 
time  I  did  not  hear  one  laugh,  did  not  see  one 
smile.  All  have  but  one  hope.  To  reach  the 
age  of  fourteen  and  then  be  placed.  It  matters 
not  where  nor  to  what  work!  The  main  thing 
is  to  get  out  of  the  *'  box  "  as  the  children  call  it. 
But  only  six  out  of  ten  reach  the  age  of  fourteen. 
The  hospital  is  the  anteroom  of  the  grave. 


i8o  Crimes  of  Charity 

When  I  spoke  of  the  great  proportion  of  sick 
among  the  children  and  of  the  pallor  of  all,  the 
superintendent  explained : 

"  You  must  not  forget  that  these  are  not  nor- 
mal children.  They  are  the  offspring  of  degen- 
erates —  of  the  poor." 

In  all  the  world,  in  all  the  charitable  institu- 
tions, poverty  is  a  crime.  Thus  are  the  children, 
the  orphans,  treated  like  little  would-be  criminals 
and  every  move  is  regarded  with  suspicion.  Not 
half  of  the  money  given  for  their  food  is  spent  on 
food  and  not  a  half  that  is  given  for  their  clothing 
is  spent  for  them.  The  whole  institution  is  a 
shame  and  the  man  who  thought  he  was  perform- 
ing a  good  deed  when  he  left  a  bequest  to  shelter 
the  children  of  the  poor  is  cursed  instead  of  being 
blessed. 

And  the  devil  sits  on  the  stove  and  says: 
"  This  is  the  best  place  that  man  ever  built  for 
me. 

This  was  a  model  Orphan  Home.  I  have 
since  visited  other  places  and  found  everywhere 
the  same  situation,  with  little  variations.  The  con- 
ditions in  a  Paris  house  are  no  better  than  those 
in  Chicago,  and  the  children  are  not  more  un- 
happy in  Montreal  than  In  Berlin.  The  children 
of  the  poor,  the  orphans,  are  everywhere  little 
criminals  that  Mr.  Levy,  Monsieur  Albert,  Mr. 
Marcel  or  Herr  Grun  has  to  "  tame  and  teach 


The  Orphan  Home  i8l 

submission."  The  wish  of  all  the  children  is  to 
get  rid  in  some  way  of  the  *'  box."  (This  word 
is  used  by  all  the  orphans  all  over  the  world  to 
designate  their  home.  It  is  characteristic  and 
shows  how  suffering  is  international  and  conveys 
to  all  the  same  designation  of  a  certain  evil.) 
The  girls  by  getting  married  or  becoming  servants. 
Oh!  They  don't  intend  to  stay  married  to  the 
man  the  institution  procures  for  them.  Generally 
It  is  an  old  widower  who  applies  for  one,  to  "  make 
happy  a  poor  orphan."  She  will  not  stay  with 
him  and  her  vow  is  worth  nothing  —  is  a  subter- 
fuge to  escape.  And  if  she  goes  as  a  servant  it 
is  also  only  to  get  out  into  the  world  where  she 
will  soon  fall  a  victim  to  the  first  snare,  on  account 
of  her  inexperience  and  broken  spirit,  and  her  fear 
of  returning  to  the  "  box." 

Never  has  the  orphan  house  been  described  as 
well  as  Marguerite  Audoux  has  done  it  in  her 
"  Marie  Claire."  There,  too,  you  see  what  the 
children  miss  —  bread  and  love  —  and  that  what 
they  most  want  is  freedom.  The  day  one  of  the 
girls  goes  away  all  the  others  are  sad  —  sad  to 
live  between  those  four  walls.  The  friendship 
of  the  cook  is  one's  greatest  asset.  One  can  get 
an  extra  piece  of  meat  or  an  apple  or  a  slice  of 
bread.  All  the  while  tens  of  thousands  of  dollars 
are  given,  gardens  are  made  where  the  children 
must  not  enter  and  food  is  prepared  which  the  chil- 


1 82  Crimes  of  Charity 

dren  do  not  eat.  Holidays  are  celebrated  and  the 
children  are  tortured  to  learn  some  platitude  which 
they  must  recite  to  please  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  come  to  honour  the  house  with  their  presence. 
But  down  in  their  souls  the  children  hate  the  whole 
game.  They  are  not  fooled  —  they  know.  And 
one  girl  confided  to  me  the  following : 

"  There  are  busts  in  clay  and  marble  and  paint- 
ings of  all  that  have  started  and  contributed  to 
this  institution.  In  the  centre  hall  is  a  white 
stone  plate  with  the  names  engraved  in  gold. 
Well,  every  morning  I  walk  up  to  each  and  every 
one  and  tell  him  my  opinion  of  his  deed.  I  can 
hardly  keep  my  fist  back  from  the  bust  of  the  one 
who  founded  this  '  box.'  And  to  the  plate,  that 
plate  with  names  engraved  in  gold  —  morning 
and  night  I  say,  '  Damn  you  all.'  It's  my 
prayer." 

This  voices  the  feeling  of  all  the  children. 

My  visit  to  the  Orphan  Asylum  was  due  to  the 
following  fact. 

Mrs.  D.,  a  widow,  had  two  children,  two  girls, 
one  seven  and  one  ten.  When  her  husband  died 
she  placed  both  children  in  the  Orphan  Home. 
After  a  few  months  the  younger  one  died  there 
and  Mrs.  D.  took  the  other  one  home.  All  the 
charitable  institutions  did  their  utmost  to  get  the 
child  back  to  the  institution,  but  in  vain.     The 


The  Orphan  Home  183 

mother  maintained  that  the  death  of  her  child 
was  due  to  the  negligence  of  the  people  in  charge 
there.  She  said  this  openly,  although  she  needed 
assistance.  The  child,  too,  would  not  return,  and 
whenever  the  name  of  the  institution  was  men- 
tioned would  cling  to  the  mother's  apron.  The 
office  was  afraid  that  the  reputation  of  the  insti- 
tution would  be  damaged  and  so  they  used  every 
effort  to  combat  the  mother's  decision.  The 
whole  officialdom  was  very  nice  and  gentle  to  the 
widow.  Help  was  freely  given,  and  they  even 
spoke  of  buying  her  a  candy  store,  on  condition 
that  she  free  herself  of  the  child.  When  this 
course  did  not  produce  the  desired  effect  the  Man- 
ager explained  to  her  that  the  child  would  stand 
in  the  way  of  her  remarriage,  that  she  was  young 
and  had  a  right  to  live,  etc.,  etc.  When  he 
wanted,  the  silken  gentleman  knew  how  to  use 
unctuous  language.  But  the  mother  instinct  was 
stronger  than  the  desire  for  money,  for  happiness 
—  stronger  than  hunger. 

Finally  supplies  were  cut  off.  It  was  expected 
that  hunger,  "  King  Hunger,"  would  settle  every- 
thing. And  "  King  Hunger  "  did  settle  it.  Two 
months  later  two  lines  in  a  newspaper  spoke  about 
his  success.  She  was  found  dead  with  her  child 
lying  near  her.  The  gas-jet  was  open  and  the 
coroner  is  investigating  whether  it  was  an  accident 
or  suicide. 


184  Crimes  of  Charity 

I  give  only  the  outlines  of  this  miserable  affair. 
It  did  not  go  as  smoothly  as  it  appears  on  paper. 
The  visits  of  the  mother,  the  change  of  tactics, 
the  cries  of  the  child  whenever  some  one  ap- 
proached her.  The  horror  of  it  alll  And  the 
talk  of  the  people  at  the  office.  From  the  Man- 
ager to  the  janitor  —  cold-blooded  murderers. 
And  the  threats  and  taunts  and  insults.  And  to- 
day, when  I  look  back  at  it  all,  I  think  of  my  visit 
to  this  and  all  the  other  orphan  houses,  and  I  am  of 
the  opinion  that  this  mother  did  not  do  a  bad  thing. 
She  had  more  courage  than  many  others.  If  they 
all  knew,  as  this  mother  did,  and  if  they  all  were 
as  sincere  and  truthful  to  their  children.  Death 
would  always  be  preferable  to  the  wreck  of  what 
remains.  Then,  and  only  then,  would  the  eyes 
of  the  world  be  opened.  Then  would  everything 
be  clear  -< —  clear  —  that  no  man  could  with  one 
hand  ruin  health  and  spirit,  through  factory  and 
workshop  and  adulterated  food,  dark  and  dirty 
tenement  houses  and  Wall  Street  speculation,  and 
with  another  hand  give  donations  of  a  few  dollars 
to  palliate  the  evil  he  had  created. 

Or  Is  this  perhaps  a  new  interpretation  of 
Christ's  words :  "  Let  not  thy  left  hand  know 
what  thy  right  hand  doeth  "  ? 


WHY  THEY  GIVE 

AMONG  the  chief  contributors  to  a  charita- 
ble institution  are  two  gentlemen  manu- 
facturers. One  a  Mr.  W.,  the  other  a 
Mr.  M.  D. 

In  the  clothing  factory  of  Mr.  W.  about  four 
hundred  workers,  men,  women  and  children,  are 
employed.  There  the  lowest  wages  are  paid  and 
a  task  system,  combined  with  subcontracting  and 
piece  work,  compels  the  workers  to  start  at  five 
in  the  morning,  and  if  you  pass  at  midnight  you 
will  still  see  the  lights  burning  and  hear  the  heavy 
rolling  of  the  machines. 

In  the  Summer  of  19 13  the  manufacturer  took 
a  trip  to  Europe,  and  when  he  returned  in  Sep- 
tember he  found  a  considerable  financial  depres- 
sion. His  men  were  employed  only  part  of  the 
time;  many  were  discharged  altogether.  The 
average  pay  of  the  men  was  three  dollars  to  four 
dollars  per  week,  the  women  and  girls  one  dollar 
and  one  dollar  and  fifty  cents.  The  Jewish  holy 
days  approached  and  as  all  the  worklngmen,  as 
well  as  their  employers,  were  Jews,  they  were  nat- 
urally very  much  worried  how  the  holy  days  were 

185 


1 86  Crimes  of  Charity 

to  be  kept.  Two  weeks  before  the  Day  of  Atone- 
ment Mr.  W.  called  into  his  office  a  few  of  his 
men  and  delivered  himself  of  the  following : 

"  Boys,  the  holy  days  are  coming.  I  am  a  Jew, 
a  good  Jew,  and  thought  that  you  all  must  be  very 
anxious  to  get  some  more  money  in  your  pay  en- 
velopes so  that  you  may  buy  clothes  for  your 
women  and  children,  and  I  have  decided  to  see 
that  you  all  have  plenty  of  work  during  the  fol- 
lowing weeks." 

The  men  cheered  Mr.  W. 

"  But,"  he  continued,  "  on  one  condition,  by 
reducing  your  prices  fifteen  per  cent.  Times  are 
hard.  I  have  had  enormous  expenses.  The  holy 
days  are  approaching.  I  have  no  doubt  that  all 
of  you  are  good  Jews  and  would  not  want  to 
shame  your  faith,  so  I  hope  that  all  is  agreeable 
to  you  and  you  can  start  to-morrow  under  the  new 
condition." 

Naturally  the  men  refused  and  assembled  in 
the  halls  of  their  union.  The  leaders  of  that 
organisation  could  not  believe  that  Mr.  W.  had 
said  what  the  men  reported,  though  they  knew  the 
gentleman  very  well,  and  they  went  to  the  manu- 
facturer to  get  an  explanation.  I  was  then  the 
Secretary  of  a  Tailor's  Union.  The  result  of  the 
conference  was  that  Mr.  W.  repeated  what  he  had 
said  to  his  men  and  added  that  he  saw  that  this 
was  the  best  opportunity  to  cut  wages. 


Why  They  Give  187 

"  They  are  all  Jews  —  they  will  need  money 
for  the  holy  days,  so  they  have  to  submit.  It's 
my  best  chance." 

It  so  happened  that  the  men  kept  well  together 
and  did  not  return  to  work.  They  struck.  Win- 
ter set  in  very  early  that  cursed  year,  but  the  men 
and  women  stood  hunger  and  cold  rather  than 
submit  to  such  conditions.  Weeks  and  weeks 
passed  and  Mr.  W.  made  no  effort  to  settle  with 
his  men.  We  knew  he  had  plenty  of  work.  We 
knew  he  was  sending  work  to  be  done  in  the  coun- 
try places  at  ridiculously  low  prices.  Still  we 
knew  that  there  was  work  he  could  not  send  out. 
None  of  the  men  returned  to  work;  none  of  the 
other  tailors  worked  there.  We  watched,  and 
one  day  we  got  hold  of  a  newly  arrived  immigrant 
with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  one  of  the  pickets 
asked  him,  and  innocently  the  man  showed  his 
letter.  A  letter  from  the  charity  organisation  to 
the  manufacturer  in  which  he  was  told  that  the 
man  had  just  come  over,  "  and  will,  let  us  hope, 
prove  to  be  of  the  right  kind." 

The  original  is  in  the  safe  of  Local  209  of  the 
United  Garment  Workers  of  America. 

And  then  we  learned  that  daily  the  institution 
sent  men  to  break  the  strike,  to  help  the  manufac- 
turer who  contributed  a  certain  sum  yearly  to 
charity  because  it  costs  less  to  do  this  than  to  use 


1 88  Crimes  of  Charity 

a  strike-breakers'  agency.  With  the  help  of  these 
institutions  the  men  were  beaten.  For  thirty 
weeks  through  the  cruel  winter  of  19 13  they  re- 
mained on  strike.  When  the  temperature  de- 
scended to  thirty  below  zero  men,  women  and  chil- 
dren stood  naked  and  hungry.  Illness  killed  them 
by  the  dozen.  Some  of  the  young  girls  went  on 
the  streets,  and  the  charity  institution  sent  the  in- 
coming and  ignorant  immigrants  to  the  manufac- 
turer, who  worked  them  sixteen  hours  a  day  for 
five  dollars  or  six  dollars  a  week. 

"  Men,  what  are  you  doing?  "  I  asked  the  man- 
agers of  the  institution.  "  You  are  supposed  to 
help  the  poor,  the  suffering,  and  not  the  manu- 
facturers." 

"  Yes,"  I  was  answered,  "  but  this  institution 
exists  through  the  bounty  of  the  rich  and  they  are 
the  first  to  be  considered." 

"  Then  this  is  a  strike-breaking  agency?  " 

"  Call  It  what  you  will." 

Then  we  went  to  the  manufacturer. 

**  Have  you  no  heart?  You  know  that  the  cost 
of  living  is  going  up.  How  can  you  reduce 
wages?  " 

The  answer  was :  *'  First  I  am  a  business  man, 
and  as  such  I  must  try  to  reduce  the  cost  of  pro- 
duction. I  saw  my  opportunity.  As  to  the  high 
cost  of  living,  I  am  convinced  that  the  chief  reason 
for  this  Is  the  high  cost  of  production,  and  In 


Why  They  Give  189 

reducing  the  wages  of  the  men  I  lower  the  cost 
of  production."  Of  course  with  such  brutes  dis- 
cussion is  useless.  But  his  parting  words  are  in- 
teresting : 

"  Believe  me,  sir,  I  suffer  to  see  my  men  in 
misery.  You  know  I  am  a  heavy  contributor  to 
charity." 

It  was  too  much  for  me. 

One  more  point  in  regard  to  the  outcome  of  the 
strilce.  A  certain  influential  man  of  the  city  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  about  a  settlement  through 
arbitration.  The  workers  selected  two  men,  the 
manufacturer  another  two  and  the  editor  of  a 
Jewish  newspaper  presided.  Mr.  W.  as  well  as 
the  workers  agreed  to  submit  to  whatever  the  arbi- 
tration committee  should  decide.  On  the  third 
day  a  settlement  was  reached  and  the  men  sent 
back  to  work,  but  when  they  arrived  at  the  shops 
hired  toughs  and  detectives  cruelly  assaulted 
the  starved  tailors.  Many  were  carried  to  hos- 
pitals and  others  were  arrested.  The  manu- 
facturer himself  denied  that  he  had  ever  agreed 
to  submit  to  an  arbitration  committee,  though  he 
had  given  his  signature  to  a  typewritten  agree- 
ment. 

Mr.  M.  D.,  the  other  gentleman  manufacturer 
mentioned,  is  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  coun- 
try. He  is  a  cigar  manufacturer.  For  a  long 
time  he  was  the  president  of  a  charitable  organlsa- 


190  Crimes  of  Charity 

tion  and  is  a  heavy  contributor  to  every  form  of 
charity. 

In  the  teeth  of  winter,  19 14,  he  reduced  the 
wages  of  his  workingmen  twenty-five  per  cent. 
None  of  the  English  papers  said  a  word,  not  a 
word  in  the  Jewish  one,  because  the  gentleman 
took  the  precaution  to  be  a  shareholder  in  the 
publication.  The  result?  A  few  more  dead;  a 
few  more  on  the  street;  a  few  more  in  the  hos- 
pital; a  few  more  dollars  to  charity. 

And  that  splendid  gentleman,  Mr.  G.,  who  put 
eight  dollars  in  Amy's  pay  envelope,  a  girl  seven- 
teen years  old,  and  when  Amy  returned  the  money, 
saying  that  only  three  dollars  and  sixty  cents  was 
due  her  he  said :  "  Well,  well,  for  the  rest  of 
the  money  I  want  a  kiss,"  and  he  took  it,  and  Amy 
is  on  the  street  now. 

And  Mr.  G.  ?  Ye  poor  of  the  land  don't  for- 
get him  in  your  daily  prayers.  He  helps  the 
widow  and  the  orphan. 

In  a  controversy  about  white  slavery  I  main- 
tained that  the  chief  reason  was  the  low  wages 
paid  to  the  girls,  and  this  gentleman  had  the  au- 
dacity to  state  publicly  that  the  real  reason  was  the 
high  wage  ($3)  paid  to  them;  that  they  get  used 
to  luxury.  A  week  after  his  statement  a  girl 
found  in  a  house  of  ill  fame  and  brought  before 
the  Judge  frankly  stated  that  she  could  not  live  on 
$3  per  week  and  that  this  was  the  chief  reason 


Why  They  Give  191 

for  her  downfall.  Did  Mr.  G.  not  himself  pay 
$4.40  (the  difference  between  $3.60  and  $8.00) 
for  a  kiss?  But  that's  why  they  give  money  to 
charities.  To  be  shielded,  to  be  helped  in  case  of 
a  strike,  to  procure  a  talisman. 


THE  KITCHEN 

THERE  was  no  work  to  be  had  anywhere  in 
the  winter  of  19 13-14.  The  C.  P.  R. 
and  G.  T.  R.  had  discharged  men  by  the 
hundreds.  Factories  had  shut  down,  stores 
closed.  Hundreds,  nay,  thousands,  were  starv- 
ing. What  had  happened?  A  financial  depres- 
sion! Over-valuation,  speculation  and  other  ex- 
planations could  not  still  the  hunger  of  the  poor 
and  their  families.  The  cost  of  living  and  rent 
went  up,  and  nature  seemed  to  help  the  rich. 
What  a  winter ! 

Some  good-hearted  men  started  a  campaign 
for  a  kitchen  where  the  hungry  could  get  a  com- 
plete meal  for  5  cents.  No  sooner  was  the  cam- 
paign started  and  the  necessary  fund  covered,  the 
kitchen  well  started,  when  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  went  there  to  satisfy  their  hunger.  Nat- 
urally enough,  among  the  chief  contributors  were 
the  same  Mr.  W.  and  Mr.  M.  D.  as  well  as  other 
manufacturers.  My  suspicions  were  aroused.  I 
found  there  men,  newly  arrived  immigrants,  that 
an  Immigrants'  Aid  Society  had  sent  to  work  at 
certain  places.     They  naturally  displaced  other 

192 


The  Kitchen  193 


better  paid  men,  and  ridiculously  low  wages  were 
paid. 

"  And  how  do  you  live  on  two  or  three  dollars 
per  week?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  spend  it  all,"  I  was  answered. 
*'  I  send  a  portion  of  my  wages  home  to  my  wife 
and  children  to  Russia,"  said  one. 

"  How  do  you  live,  then?  " 

"  We  eat  at  the  Folks'  Kitchen,"  was  the 
answer. 

And  there  and  then  I  found  that  nine  men  out 
of  every  ten  eating  there  were  employed  by  one  of 
the  other  of  the  manufacturers  who  contributed 
to  the  fund  of  the  kitchen.  Any  wonder  the  pro- 
ject immediately  materialised?  And  not  only 
have  they  given  money  but  the  rich  send  their 
wives  and  daughters  to  serve  the  poor. 

In  investigating  the  cases  of  those  that  applied 
for  clothes  for  their  children,  the  charities  elimi- 
nated those  whose  fathers  or  mothers  were  on 
strike  at  the  factories  of  W.  or  M.  D. — "  Fortu- 
nate he  who  can  know  the  causes  of  things." 

I  took  this  kitchen  as  a  sample.  Those  in  other 
cities,  cosmopolitan  centres,  are  the  same.  Take 
the  Baron  de  Rothschild  kitchen  in  Paris.  Aside 
from  the  fact  that  the  food  given  there  is  rotten, 
that  the  potatoes  served  are  alcoholised,  the  bread 
green  with  mould  and  the  meat  unspeakably  odor- 
ous, aside  from  all  this,  a  swarm  of  little  sweat- 


194  Crimes  of  Charity 

shop  keepers  are  continually  around  the  kitchen 
where  they  engage  cheap  labour. 

Cheap!  Ye  gods.  I  have  tried  it  myself. 
They  paid  me  20  cents  a  day  for  fourteen  hours' 
work  in  an  umbrella  and  cane  factory.  I  worked 
there  a  full  week  and  was  not  the  only  one.  Next 
to  my  bench,  in  front  and  across,  all  over,  newly 
arrived  men  and  boys  were  polishing  the  sticks, 
rubbing  them  so  hard  that  the  hands  bled.  A 
brother  of  the  manufacturer  was  watching  and 
driving. 

"  Come  on,  come  on." 

Then  in  the  evening  they  all  ran  to  the  kitchen 
to  get  their  meal.  When  they  found  out  I  was 
not  green,  I  was  immediately  discharged.  They 
wanted  only  ignorant  men,  newly  arrived  men. 

Down  in  the  painting  room  they  employed 
girls.  It  was  more  a  house  of  prostitution  than 
a  working  room.  The  poor  ignorant  girls,  har- 
vested from  the  kitchen,  were  debauched  while 
they  painted  canes  and  polished  handles. 

So  many  of  these  sweatshops  grew  around  the 
kitchen  that  rent  rose  in  the  neighbourhood.  Still 
a  bookbinding  concern  found  it  convenient  to  aban- 
don a  lease  of  years  and  move  the  whole  factory 
to  where  it  was  nearer  the  blessed  spot.  More 
than  half  of  the  men  working  around  never  re- 
ceived more  than  one  dollar  per  day  and  when 
they  went  on  strike  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  fill 


The  Kitchen  195 


their  places  with  the  people  of  the  dung  hill. 

In  my  presence  a  prospective  manufacturer,  dis- 
cussing the  merits  of  different  localities  for  his 
plant,  was  willing  to  pay  $80  per  month  more  for 
one  site  than  the  other  because  it  was  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  kitchen.  He  would  have  cheaper 
labour.  He  did  underbid  all  the  other  contractors 
and  prospered  and  is  an  influential  member  of  or- 
ganised charity  to-day. 

The  small  manufacturer  advises  his  men  where 
to  get  cheap  meals.  At  the  kitchen.  Cheap 
kitchens  for  the  poor?  Cheap  kitchens  are  for 
the  rich.  Kitchens  I  A  place  where  the  spiders 
spread  their  web  to  catch  the  hungry  flies  —  to 
suck  their  blood. 


CHOCOLATE 

INVESTIGATING  in  Paris  (France)  the  con- 
ditions  of  charity  institutions  I  was  struck 
by  one  particularly  funny  custom  which  pre- 
vailed in  one  of  them.  After  the  applicant  had 
been  tortured  and  questioned  until  he  would  pre- 
fer death  to  a  renewal  of  the  ordeal  he  was  given 
as  many  packages  of  chocolates  as  he  had  chil- 
dren, chocolate  of  the  best  kind,  also  a  certain 
amount  of  meat  and  bread  tickets.  On  the  back 
of  each  ticket  was  written  the  stores  where  he 
could  exchange  it  for  meat  or  bread. 

One  of  the  investigators,  having  told  me  that 
"  they "  sold  these  tickets,  especially  the  meat 
tickets,  I  decided  to  find  out  the  reason  for  this. 
I  stationed  myself  in  a  butcher's  shop  around  the 
Place  de  la  Bastile,  whose  name  and  address  was 
on  the  back  of  a  ticket.  Until  lo  A.  m.  I  had  not 
seen  a  single  ticket  coming  and  I  was  already 
drawing  certain  conclusions  when  I  saw  a  woman 
coming  in.  She  laid  down  on  the  table  five  francs' 
worth  of  tickets  and  got  two  francs  in  exchange. 
Then  another  and  another  one  came  and  all  re- 
ceived forty  per  cent,  of  the  value.     Why  ? 

196 


Chocolate  197 

The  next  day  I  obtained  a  few  tickets  myself, 
and  going  into  another  butcher  shop  whose  ad- 
dress was  also  marked  on  the  back  of  the  ticket  I 
ordered  four  pounds  of  meat.  Politely  the  man 
served  me,  and  when  he  had  tied  up  the  parcel 
nicely,  I  tendered  him  the  tickets.  The  man  got 
red  with  rage  and  brusquely  snatched  the  parcel, 
put  his  meat  back  on  the  nails,  then,  still  without 
speaking  a  word,  only  looking  daggers  at  me,  he 
proceeded  to  scrape  together  all  the  spoiled  pieces 
and  bones  he  could  find.  This  he  weighed,  and 
wrapping  it  up  in  a  piece  of  dirty  paper  he  handed 
it  to  me  with  the  remark:  "  That's  good  enough 
for  you." 

"  But,  sir,"  I  said,  "  you  get  paid  for  meat  and 
not  for  scraps  and  bones." 

"  Clear  out,  clear  out,  you  pauper,"  he  yelled. 
"  What  impudence  —  what  impudence."  And  to 
a  new  customer  who  had  just  come  in  he  explained, 
"  These  paupers  are  getting  impossible  to  deal 
with." 

He  pushed  me  out  and  I  had  to  get  rid  of  my 
parcel  at  the  gutter.  The  odour  of  it  was  sicken- 
ing. But  then  I  understood  why  they  were  ex- 
changing tickets  for  forty  per  cent,  of  the  face 
value.  With  the  money  thus  obtained  they  could 
get  a  piece  of  meat  elsewhere  —  a  piece  of  meat 
that  was  eatable. 

These  tickets  are  paid  to  the  butcher  less  ten 


198  Crimes  of  Charity 

per  cent,  every  first  of  the  month.  Why  are 
tickets  given  instead  of  money  for  meat,  for 
bread?  There  must  be  a  reason.  There  must 
be  some  one  interested.  They  are  quite  abund- 
antly given.  Very  little  ready  cash.  Blankets, 
shoes,  aprons,  meat  tickets,  bread  tickets.  Then 
think  of  the  little  consideration  shown  the  feelings 
of  the  poor.  Why  advertise  him  as  a  pauper 
everywhere,  at  the  butcher's  and  baker's? 

As  to  the  chocolate,  I  learned  that  a  certain 
rich  lady  had  bequeathed  a  certain  amount  of 
money  specially  for  this  purpose,  namely,  that 
chocolate  of  a  certain  brand  should  be  given  to 
the  children  of  the  poor.  The  good  old  lady 
must  have  loved  sweetmeats  herself  very  much 
and  she  evidently  thought  that  there  was  no 
greater  misfortune  than  to  miss  the  sweet  bite. 
Bless  her  poor  soul  1 


OUT  OF  THEIR  CLUTCHES 

DURING  the  Lawrence  strike,  In  the  win- 
ter of  1911-12,  the  striking  weavers 
deemed  it  proper  to  send  away  their  chil- 
dren to  comrades  in  other  places.  The  men  and 
women  understood  that  the  children  should  be 
kept  away  from  the  carnage  then  going  on. 

Arrangements  were  soon  completed  and  the 
children  sent  away  to  New  York  in  charge  of  a 
few  reliable  people.  But  on  the  second  transport 
the  charities  took  a  hand  in  the  proceedings  and 
compelled  the  Mayor  and  the  Sheriff  to  stop  the 
exodus.  The  pretext  was  that  the  children  were 
being  taken  away  from  their  mothers,  to  whom 
they  belonged,  and  who  should  take  care  of  them. 
To  intimidate  the  workers  a  few  of  the  parents 
were  arrested  and  kept  under  lock  and  key  "  to 
show  an  example." 

No  human  being  could  forget  the  spectacle 
when  the  poor  little  ones  arrived.  Pale,  haggard, 
starved,  cold,  naked,  with  shoes  torn,  bareheaded, 
they  passed  along  Fifth  Avenue.  The  ladies  and 
gentlemen  lined  themselves  on  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk.     A  woman  kept  a  pet  dog  in  her  arms 

199 


200  Crimes  of  Charity 

and  when  she  saw  a  little  girl  shivering  she  cud- 
dled the  animal  to  her  body. 

Could  any  one  forget  the  first  meal  the  children 
had.  It  looked  as  though  they  would  eat  up  the 
spoons  and  forks.  They  were  afterwards  dis- 
tributed to  those  who  applied  for  them,  to  keep 
them  until  the  strike  was  over. 

It  looks  very  reasonable,  does  It  not?  Not  to 
organised  charity.  They,  who  insult  and  torture, 
got  busy  and  investigated  and  reported  to  the 
Gerry  Society.  Got  the  papers  busy  on  the  sub- 
ject and  made  life  miserable  for  every  one  who 
had  a  Lawrence  child.  Were  they  afraid  that  the 
workers  had  wakened  up  to  their  own  misery? 
Were  they  afraid  organised  charity  was  going  out 
of  business?  Were  they  afraid  to  lose  the  fat 
positions,  or  was  it  simply  the  mania  for  investi- 
gating? Simply  the  desire  to  augment  the  quan- 
tity of  records?  The  most  pressing  local  cases 
were  put  aside.  Everybody  was  employed  get- 
ting the  children  of  Lawrence  into  the  clutches  of 
organised  charity.  They  met  with  very  little  suc- 
cess, but  to  me,  who  knew  them  thoroughly,  their 
cant  of  "  protect  the  children,*'  was  disgusting. 

One  of  the  boys  was  found  alone  in  a  working- 
man's  home.  The  investigator  got  busy  with  so 
many  questions  and  insinuations  (he  was  Italian 
and  the  people  keeping  him  were  Jews)  that  the 
poor  boy  ran  away,  fearing  his  life  was  in  danger. 


Out  of  Their  dutches  201 

The  Jews  needed  his  blood !  He  wandered  aim- 
lessly on  the  street.  A  policeman  noticed  him, 
brought  him  to  the  station,  the  reporters  got  a 
story : 

"  The  child  ran  away  because  he  was  ill 
treated."  He  was  ill  treated  by  the  investigator 
who  poisoned  his  soul.  They  wanted  the  children 
of  the  Lawrence  strikers  in  their  clutches,  in  the 
clutches  of  charity.     Thank  God,  they  were  saved. 


"  THE  HOME  » 

THE  husband  dead  and  she  left  with  four 
small  children,  the  woman  had  to  apply  to 
charity.  An  investigator  was  sent  and 
she  found  the  family  on  the  verge  of  starvation. 
As  she  was  speaking  to  the  applicant  an  old  man, 
with  grey  beard  and  bent  shoulders,  came  in. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  My  father,"  the  widow  answered. 

Further  questions  brought  out  the  fact  that  the 
old  man  had  lived  in  his  daughter's  house  since 
his  wife  died;  that  he  was  too  weak  and  old  to 
earn  his  living  and  consequently  fed  on  his  daugh- 
ter's fare.  The  investigator  insinuated  that  the 
old  man  would  have  to  be  placed  in  a  *'  Home." 
The  widow  cried  and  vowed  that  she  would  never 
part  with  her  father,  and  the  children  surrounded 
their  grandfather  as  though  he  was  in  actual  dan- 
ger of  his  life.  The  result  was  to  be  foreseen. 
A  week's  hunger  brought  the  widow  to  the  office, 
where  she  agreed  to  part  with  her  father,  so  that 
her  children  might  live. 

The  old  man  took  no  active  part  in  the  contro- 
versy concerning  his  future.     Apathetic,  he  would 

203 


"  The  Home  "  203 

sit  near  the  open  window  and  read  the  Psalms. 
He  said  no  word  when  his  daughter  announced  to 
him  what  the  outcome  was.  A  few  minutes  later 
he  asked:  "When  am  I  to  go?"  Then  he 
packed  his  belongings,  the  "  Tefilin "  prayer 
books,  and  was  ready. 

Thus  are  the  people  of  woe  ready  to  wander. 
He  has  been  in  many  lands  and  many  a  time  he 
has  had  to  leave  his  abode,  go  from  east  to 
west,  north  to  south. 

That  very  night  he  slept  in  the  "  Home." 
Home  I  the  most  horrible  word  for  the  poor. 
Home  I  The  whole  world  calls  home  the  place 
where  one  lives.  For  the  poor,  the  old  ones  who 
cannot  work  any  longer,  "  the  Home  "  is  the  place 
where  they  die.  It's  the  place  that  stamps  them, 
brands  them  as  eternal  paupers.  It's  the  crown- 
ing glory  of  a  life  of  work,  manual  work.  I 
know  you  will  say:  "  What  else  could  we  do  with 
the  poor,  incapable  of  earning  their  living? " 
But  now  come  with  me  down  to  a  few  "  homes." 
Don't  become  ecstatic  over  the  beauty  of  the  lawn 
in  front  of  the  house,  nor  admire  the  cleanliness 
of  the  kitchen.  Come  down  to  look  at  the  men. 
Do  you  see  this  old  man  there?  The  one  with 
flowing  white  beard  and  bushy  eyebrows?  That 
old  Jew  has  made  chairs  and  tables  all  his  life, 
has  made  your  chair,  too,  and  his  neighbour  there 
—  the  one  with  trembling  hands  —  he  has  worked 


204  Crimes  of  Charity 

on  coats  and  overcoats,  enough  for  thousands. 
Look  at  his  hands  now.  They  tremble.  Look  at 
your  coat.  The  seam  is  straight,  you  want  a 
straight  seam.  He  is  here  now,  in  a  Home. 
Look  at  them  all.  They  have  worked  all  their 
lives  long. 

"  Come  here,  old  man.     What  is  your  trade?  " 

"  A  furrier." 

"  Old  man,  what  is  your  trade?  " 

"  A  tinsmith." 

"  And  yours?  and  yours?  and  yours?  " 

*'  Tailor,  dressmaker,  machinist  "^ —  every  trade 
is  represented. 

The  veterans  of  industry.  The  temple  of  In- 
valids. 

The  widow's  father  lived  there  only  two  months. 
I  saw  him  buried  in  the  cold  ground.  An  old 
man  from  the  Home  stood  near  the  grave. 

"  I  wish  to  be  buried  right  here,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"  I  got  used  to  him  —  we  were  neighbours. 
His  bed  was  next  to  mine." 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  the  old  Baruch?  " 
I  asked. 

*'  The  servants  did  not  like  him,"  he  answered. 

"  Was  he  ill?     I  mean  old  Baruch." 

"  No,  the  servants  did  not  like  him." 

"  But  that's  no  reason  for  a  man  to  die  I  " 

The  old  man  looked  at  me  from  under  his 


"The  Home" 205 

bushy  eyebrows.  His  look  said  plainly :  "  You 
stupid  ass."  Then  he  turned  away  from  me  and 
mingled  with  the  other  people.  He  avoided  me 
when  I  approached  him. 

On  the  next  day  I  visited  the  Home  again.  It 
was  meal  time.  They  all  sat  around  a  big  table, 
much  like  the  one  I  had  seen  at  the  orphanage. 
In  the  orphanage  are  fatherless  children,  in  the 
Homes  childless  fathers.  They  sat  around  the 
table  and  tried  to  chew  what  was  on  their  plates. 
Their  toothless  mouths  worked  in  vain.  When 
the  superintendent  remarked  to  me  that  most  of 
them  have  stomach  ailments  and  I  suggested  that 
a  dentist  examine  their  teeth  the  lady  could  not 
stifle  her  laughter.  She  was  herself  a  woman  of 
sixty  and  her  mouth  was  in  perfect  condition  —  it 
was  the  dentist's  work  of  course. 

After  the  meal  was  over  I  tried  very  hard  to 
get  some  of  the  old  men  to  talk.  They  had  noth- 
ing to  say  —  this  was  the  answer  I  got  from  a 
few. 

"Are  you  satisfied  here?"  I  asked,  to  which 
one  fine  looking  old  fellow  replied: 

"  It  all  depends  what  one  expects,  you  know. 
In  the  Talmud  is  a  story  how  a  man,  once  very 
rich,  was  not  satisfied  with  a  supper  that  three 
poor  men  together  would  have  been  satisfied 
about." 

I  humoured  the  old  fellow  and  got  him  to  walk 


2o6  Crimes  of  Charity 

with  me  about  the  grounds.  When  out  of  hearing 
of  the  others  he  told  me  how  the  attendants  beat 
every  one  of  them  for  the  slightest  infraction  of 
the  rules  of  the  house. 

"  Why  don't  you  complain  to  the  superintend- 
ent ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  The  ones  that  do  so  shorten  their  lives." 

"You  mean?" 

*'  Don't  ask  any  further."  A  man  understands 
closed  lips. 

In  a  rolling  chair,  at  the  further  end  of  the 
garden,  sat  a  paralysed  old  man. 

"  How  are  you  feeling,  Uncle?  "  I  greeted  him. 

"  Fine,  fine,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  all  right, 
now." 

"  He  is  a  lucky  dog,"  remarked  my  companion, 
the  old  man  of  the  Talmud  story.  "  He  is  para- 
lysed all  over." 

"  Do  you  call  that  lucky?  —  man,  it's  the  great- 
est misfortune." 

"  Not  in  a  Home,"  he  answered.  "  The  para- 
lysed are  like  the  dead  —  they  don't  feel  when 
they  are  hurt."  Once  his  tongue  was  loosened  the 
old  man  went  on.  "  There  is  an  attendant  here, 
a  brute.  When  he  gets  mad  he  runs  around  to 
find  fault  with  some  one,  to  hit  him.  Then  we 
all  get  out  of  his  way.  This  fellow  here,  he  has 
a  bad  stomach.  He  would  always  be  the  scape- 
goat.    My,  how  he  would  suffer.     Only  his  legs 


"The  Home" 207 

got  paralysed  at  first  and  he  had  to  be  turned  over 
in  his  bed.  When  that  drunkard  would  get 
through  with  him  the  poor  fellow's  body  was  black 
and  blue  from  pinches  and  punches.  Now  he  does 
not  feel  anything.  He  punches  him  and  hits  and 
pinches  and  gets  mad  to  see  that  the  fellow  does 
not  feel  pain  at  all." 

"  Is  that  true?  "  I  turned  to  the  old  man  in 
the  rolling  chair. 

*'  You  bet  it's  true,  and  I  have  my  revenge  now, 
to  see  him  get  wild.  '  Hullo,  Harry !  Why 
don't  you  pinch  me  a  bit.  Come  on,  Harry,  have 
a  pinch,'  and  he  gets  mad  —  like  a  savage." 

I  see  you  shake  your  head.  Fiction !  Fiction ! 
Then  read  the  letter  sent  by  a  young  man  and  a 
young  woman  who  worked  at  a  "  Home  "  in  New 
York.  The  letter  was  printed  in  "  Our  Health  " 
of  January,  19 13.  The  Institution  did  not  even 
offer  an  excuse.     Deny,  it  could  not. 

"  The  patients  are  mistreated,  beaten,  kicked, 
insulted,"  runs  the  letter.  It  has  two  signatures, 
the  man's  and  the  woman's.  If  this  be  not  true, 
why  did  not  the  Montefiore  Home  sue  the  calum- 
niators ?  But  it  is  true.  They  keep  quiet.  They 
are  afraid  of  revelations.  Some  old  man  or  old 
woman  might  take  his  last  days  into  his  own  hands 
and  come  out  with  the  truth. 

Another  old  man  was  punished  by  the  attendant 
with  two  days'  fast.     He  sat  at  the  table  but  was 


2o8  Crimes  of  Charity 

forbidden  to  eat.  The  cause  of  the  punishment 
was  that  the  old  man  had  soiled  the  tablecloth. 

When  visitors  come  the  lawn  is  shown,  the  clean 
kitchen,  the  beautiful  dining  room,  the  spacious 
rooms.  Nothing  of  the  inhuman  treatment  to 
which  the  inmates  are  subject  comes  to  light.  The 
gross  insults :  "  Beggar,  schnorrer,  pauper,  liar," 
are  not  heard  then. 

One  "  Home  "  is  under  the  same  roof  with  an 
orphan  house.  Upstairs  the  children,  downstairs 
the  old  people,  as  though  it  were  a  prophecy: 
*'  Here  you  start,  there  you  finish." 

The  callousness  of  this  shows  the  sentiment  of 
the  people  supporting  the  institutions.  An  old 
woman,  while  peeling  potatoes,  remarked:  "  All 
they  miss  is  a  dressmaking  shop  between  the  floors 
and  a  cemetery  in  the  yard  and  their  whole  life 
would  stretch  before  them." 


"  BISMARCK  " 

AMONGST  the  people  in  the  Home  were 
two  chums  of  olden  days.  Moise  Hertz 
and  "  Bismarck."  They  knew  one  an- 
other from  childhood,  were  born  in  the  same  vil- 
lage in  Russia,  had  gone  to  the  same  school 
(cheder)  and  were  both,  later  on,  with  their 
wives  and  children,  driven  from  home.  Once 
across  the  border  they  drifted  apart.  Moise 
Hertz  with  his  family  went  to  Germany  and  "  Bis- 
marck "  with  his  wife  and  children  went  to  Eng- 
land. Both  men  were  tailors.  Moise  Hertz's 
two  sons  returned  to  Russia  during  the  revolution. 
One  was  hanged;  the  other  is  in  Sachalin  (Si- 
beria).    His  wife  died  in  New  York. 

"  Bismarck's  "  son  is  in  Denver,  trying  to  cure 
himself  of  tuberculosis.  His  daughter  is  blind. 
His  wife  is  in  a  Home  for  women. 

The  two  men  had  not  met  for  fifteen  years, 
though  they  both  lived  in  New  York  a  good  deal 
of  this  time.  (When  they  told  one  another  the 
stories  of  their  lives  they  found  out  that  they  even 
worked  for  a  time  in  the  same  shop,  on  different 
floors.)     Then  one  day,  as  Moise  Hertz  filled 

209 


2IO  Crimes  of  Charity 

his  pipe  he  felt  some  one  looking  at  him  intently. 
The  years  are  not  so  kind  to  the  poor  as  to  the 
rich,  especially  to  poor  Jews,  but  Moise  Hertz's 
eyes  were  keen  and  the  two  old  chums  embraced 
and  called  one  another  by  their  first  names. 
"  Moise  —  Abe  I  "  In  their  joy  they  even  blessed 
the  place  where  they  met.  Moise  Hertz's  lone- 
liness was  over.  He  had  somebody  to  talk  to  of 
his  younger  days.  They  told  one  another  their 
misfortunes.  All  hope  for  a  better  to-morrow 
was  gone.  They  only  had  the  past  —  a  rich  past, 
rich  in  suffering.  Once  a  week  Bassie,  Bismarck's 
wife,  would  come  to  visit  her  husband.  The  trio 
would  then  sit  together  and  figure  out  how  their 
old  friends'  children  were  getting  along.  "  He 
was  born  during  the  second  cholera."  "  No,  dur- 
ing the  Ritual  blood  accusation  of  *  Thisza 
Esler.'  "  "  No,  that's  impossible  I  "  Bassie  would 
explain.  "  My  Baruch  was  three  years  old  then 
and  she  married  during  the  Pogrom  in  Kiev." 
They  would  quarrel  on  such  subjects  and  their 
parting  words  would  still  contain  an  assurance 
from  Bassie  that  she  knew  the  right  year  of  Leah's 
birth. 

So  passed  a  full  year.  The  insults  of  the  serv- 
ants bothered  them  little.  Then  one  morning  Abe 
Schmenovitz  (at  that  time  he  was  not  nicknamed 
Bismarck)  complained  to  his  friend  that  his  arms 


"Bismarck^'  211 

pained  him.  Moise  led  his  friend  to  the  doctor's 
room.  The  man  of  science  had  a  look  and  pre- 
scribed something.  In  spite  of  the  medicine  the 
old  man's  arms  became  paralysed.  From  that 
day  on  he  was  attended  to  by  his  chum.  Moise 
Hertz  would  dress  and  wash  him  and  at  meal 
times  he  would  feed  the  old  cripple  like  a  mother 
does  her  baby.  Moise  never  ate  before  his  friend 
was  through  with  his  meal.  When  the  old  fellow 
complained  about  his  lost  arms  his  chum  consoled 
him: 

"  What's  the  difference  how  one  does,  whether 
with  usable  arms  or  not?  I  have  arms  for  you  — 
better  tell  me  how  you  got  on  in  London  —  a  big 
town  ? "  So  he  would  make  his  friend  forget 
the  sorrows  of  his  actual  state  by  forcing  him  to 
recall  other  sufferings. 

For  two  days  Moise  Hertz  was  too  ill  to  attend 
to  his  friend.  When  mealtime  arrived  the  cripple 
sat  before  his  plate  and  looked  at  the  food  — 
there  was  no  one  to  help  him.  He  was  very  hun- 
gry. He  dared  not  ask  the  attendant  to  help  him, 
so  he  bent  his  head  and  got  hold  of  a  piece  of  meat 
with  his  mouth  and  while  he  tried  to  eat  it  fell 
out  of  his  toothless  mouth  several  times.  He  had 
to  get  it  again  —  shook  his  head  and  reached 
further  —  bespattered  himself,  his  face  was  col- 
oured with  the  sauce  from  the  plate.     The  other 


212  Crimes  of  Charity 

inmates  howled  and  cursed.  But  the  attendant 
called  the  whole  servantdom  to  see  the  show,  and 
they  all  laughed  and  laughed. 

The  Institution  had  a  dog  called  "  Bismarck," 
and  Abe  Schmenovitz  got  this  nickname  from  the 
chambermaid  that  day.  It  stuck  to  him  to  his  last 
day.  For  several  days  the  attendants  forbade 
Moise  Hertz  to  feed  his  friend.  They  wanted  to 
see  the  show  —  a  man  eating  like  a  dog.  The  old 
fellow  forgot  his  real  name  in  the  course  of  time. 

When  he  died  the  servant  announced  his  death 
to  the  superintendent  in  the  following  way : 

"  Bismarck  died." 

"  The  dog?  "  The  gentleman  sprang  from  his 
chair. 

"  No,  the  man  ■ —  sir." 


TWENTY-ONE  CENTS  AND  A  QUARTER 

AN  old  couple  who  had  once  seen  better 
days  and  whose  only  son  died  of  caisson 
disease  after  working  two  months  on  the 
laying  of  the  pillars  which  support  the  Williams- 
burg Bridge  between  New  York  City  and  Brook- 
lyn, was  supported  by  organised  charity.  Rent, 
coal  and  three  dollars  a  week  for  food.  For  two 
years  they  lived  on  this  scant  pension,  when  all  at 
once  they  were  told  to  give  up  the  flat;  two  rooms 
in  a  basement. 

"  You  will  be  placed  in  Homes,"  was  the  ex- 
planation given.  For  fifty  years  these  two  old 
people  lived  together,  shared  joys  and  sorrows. 
They  protested,  cried,  explained  —  all  in  vain. 
Their  fate  was  decided  in  the  office  and  after  the 
usual  test  to  recalcitrant  paupers  the  two  victims 
submitted.  Bed,  chairs  and  table  were  sold  to  the 
secondhand  dealer  for  a  few  cents,  then  each  of 
the  two  took  a  bundle  in  one  hand,  the  picture  of 
the  dead  son  in  another;  one  took  the  car  for  the 
north  and  the  other  for  the  east  side  of  the  city. 
The  fifty  years  old  bond  was  broken. 

The  cause  of  this  act  was  the  desire  on  the  part 
213 


214  Crimes  of  Charity 

of  the  charities  to  economise.  The  difference  be- 
tween keeping  the  old  people  in  their  own  home 
and  placing  them  in  different  Homes  was  eighty- 
five  cents  a  month  —  twenty-one  and  one-quarter 
of  a  cent  a  week. 

It  did  not  take  very  long  before  the  old  man 
went  on  that  journey  whence  no  man  has  yet  re- 
turned, and  a  few  weeks  after  his  wife  followed 
him.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  separation  had 
hastened  their  deaths.  They  had  been  together 
for  fifty  years,  each  growing  accustomed  to  the 
other's  habits  and  ways.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  they 
were  torn  apart. 

Speaking  to  an  official  of  organised  charity  I 
drew  his  attention  to  the  ridiculous  economy  real- 
ised through  separating  the  old  couple.  The  man 
looked  at  me  for  awhile  and  as  an  answer  he  said : 
"  You  are  a  baby." 

A  few  months  later  he  announced  to  me: 
"  You  know  the  old  fellow  —  Sig  —  died,  and  his 
wife  also." 

I  wanted  to  tell  him  that  death  was  hastened 
by  the  criminal  stupidity  of  organised  charity,  but 
he  went  on  exulting  in  his  own  wisdom. 

"  Now  I  hope  you  will  understand  that  the 
economy  was  greater  than  eighty-five  cents  a 
month." 

What  did  he  mean  ?  Was  it  purposely  done  to 
hasten  their  death  and  save  the  pension?     I  can 


Twenty-one  Cents  and  a  Quarter     215 

see  no  other  meaning  in  his  words.  But  have  you 
ever  seen  in  the  papers  an  advertisement  displayed 
in  a  prominent  place,  reading  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows: 

"  You  are  giving  to  charity;  a  hundred,  a  thou- 
sand or  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Why  not 
give  it  to  organised  charity  and  then  send  all  the 
deserving  to  us?  Not  a  cent  is  given  before  a 
thorough  investigation  Is  made  by  people  trained 
to  do  the  work  and  who  know  how.  Contribute 
a  regular  sum  yearly  to  organised  charity.  It  will 
save  you  the  annoyance  of  the  outstretched  hand 
and  at  the  same  time  you  will  feel  that  you  have 
done  your  duty  towards  the  poor  of  the  land." 

All  the  homes  I  visited,  more  than  twenty,  here 
and  abroad,  impressed  me  with  the  terrible  gloom 
that  pervades  their  walls.  It  is  the  misery  of  a 
city  housed  under  one  roof.  It  Is  the  pay  of  a  life 
of  toil,  wearisome  and  ill-paid.  The  Inhabitants 
know  that  the  only  Issue  Is  to  the  grave.  They 
are  not  prisoners.  They  are  free.  But  In  their 
very  freedom  is  the  utter  hopelessness  of  their 
existence. 

"  I  forgot  my  name  since  I  am  here,"  an  old 
woman  told  me.  "  You  see  nobody  is  himself 
here.  You  are  to  be  just  like  the  other  one.  Not 
one  of  us  to  be  different.  I  was  an  actress  once. 
This  here  was  the  audience.  Each  of  us  had  his 
place,  his  work.     Now  It's  all  alike." 


2i6  Crimes  of  Charity 

Another  man  told  me  that  he  did  not  think  the 
sun  ever  rose  since  he  was  in  the  institution.  By 
the  thousands  and  thousands,  these,  our  fathers 
and  grandfathers,  mothers  and  grandmothers, 
whose  blood  flows  in  our  veins,  whose  toil  we  still 
enjoy,  the  makers  of  houses  and  bridges  and  ma- 
chines—  they  all  rot  in  some  prison  —  a  Home 
—  under  the  pretence  of  humanity  and  pity.  We 
don't  want  them  to  beg  on  the  street,  is  the  gen- 
eral excuse.  Why?  At  least  they  would  be  free. 
They  would  not  depend  on  a  man  or  a  set  of  men. 
They  would  not  be  referred  to  by  number  and  cata- 
logued as  cases  and  treated  like  dogs.  In  his 
"  Decay  of  Beggars,"  Charles  Lamb  says: 

"  Above  all,  those  old  blind  Tobits  that  used  to  line 
the  wall  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Garden,  before  modern 
fastidiousness  had  expelled  them,  casting  up  their  ruined 
orbs  to  catch  a  ray  of  pity,  and  (if  possible)  of  light, 
with  their  faithful  dog  guide  at  their  feet  —  whither  are 
they  fled?  or  into  what  corners,  blind  as  themselves,  have 
they  been  driven,  out  of  the  wholesome  air  and  sun- 
warmth?  immersed  between  four  walls,  in  what  wither- 
ing poor-house  do  they  endure  the  penalty  of  double  dark- 
ness, where  the  chink  of  the  dropped  halfpenny  no  more 
consoles  their  forlorn  bereavement,  far  from  the  sound 
of  the  cheerful  and  hope-stirring  tread  of  the  passenger? 
Where  hang  their  useless  staves  ?  and  who  will  farm  their 

dogs?    Have  the  overseers  of  St.  L caused  them  to 

be  shot?  or  were  they  tied  up  in  sacks  and  dropped  into 


Twenty-one  Cents  and  a  Quarter     217 

the  Thames,  at  the  suggestion  of  B ,  the  mild  rector 

of ? 

"  These  dim  eyes  have  in  vain  explored  for  some  months 
past  a  well-known  figure,  or  part  of  the  figure,  of  a  man, 
who  used  to  glide  his  comely  upper  half  over  the  pave- 
ments of  London,  wheeling  along  with  most  ingenious 
celerity  upon  a  machine  of  wood,  a  spectacle  to  natives, 
to  foreigners  and  to  children.  He  was  of  a  robust  make, 
with  a  florid  sailor-like  complexion,  and  his  head  was 
bare  to  the  storm  and  sunshine.  He  was  a  natural  curi- 
osity, a  speculation  to  the  scientific,  a  prodigy  to  the 
simple.  The  infant  would  stare  at  the  mighty  man 
brought  down  to  his  own  level.  The  common  cripple 
would  despise  his  own  pusillanimity,  viewing  the  hale 
stoutness  and  hearty  heart  of  this  half-limbed  giant.  Few 
but  must  have  noticed  him,  for  the  accident  which  brought 
him  low  took  place  during  the  riots  of  1780,  and  he  has 
been  a  groundling  so  long.  He  seemed  earth-born,  an 
Antaeus,  and  to  suck  in  fresh  vigour  from  the  soil  which 
he  neighboured.  He  was  a  grand  fragment;  as  good  as 
an  Elgin  marble.  The  nature,  which  should  have  re- 
cruited his  left  legs  and  thighs,  was  not  lost,  but  only 
retired  into  his  upper  parts,  and  he  was  half  a  Hercules. 
I  heard  a  tremendous  voice  thundering  and  growling,  as 
before  an  earthquake,  and  casting  down  my  eyes,  it  was 
this  mandrake  reviling  a  steed  that  had  started  at  his 
portentous  appearance.  He  seemed  to  want  but  his  just 
stature  to  have  rent  the  offending  quadruped  in  shivers. 
He  was  as  the  man-part  of  a  centaur,  from  which  the 
horse-half  had  been  cloven  in  some  dire  Lapithan  con- 
troversy.    He  moved  on,  as  if  he  could  have  made  shift 


21 8  Crimes  of  Charity 

with  yet  half  of  the  body  portion  which  was  left  him. 
The  OS  sublime  was  not  wanting,  and  he  threw  out  yet 
a  jolly  countenance  upon  the  heavens.  Forty-and-two 
years  had  he  driven  this  out-of-door  trade,  and  now  that 
his  hair  is  grizzled  in  the  service,  but  his  good  spirits  no 
way  impaired,  because  he  is  not  content  to  exchange  free 
air  and  exercise  for  the  restraints  of  a  poor-house,  he  is 
expiating  his  contumacy  in  one  of  those  houses  (ironi- 
cally christened)  of  correction. 

"  Was  a  daily  spectacle  like  this  to  be  deemed  a 
nuisance,  which  called  for  legal  interference  to  remove? 
or  not  rather  a  salutary  and  a  touching  object  to  the 
passers-by  in  a  great  city?  Among  her  shoes,  her  muse- 
ums, and  supplies  for  ever-gaping  curiosity  (and  what 
else  but  an  accumulation  of  sights  —  endless  sights  — 
is  a  great  city?  or  for  what  else  is  it  desirable?)  was 
there  not  room  for  one  Lusus  (not  Naturae,  indeed,  but 
A ccidentium?)  What  if  in  forty-and-two-years*  going 
about  the  man  had  scraped  together  enough  to  give  a  por- 
tion to  his  child  (as  the  rumour  ran)  of  a  few  hun- 
dreds—  whom  had  he  injured?  —  whom  had  he  imposed 
upon  ?  The  contributors  had  enjoyed  their  sight  for  their 
pennies.  What  if  after  being  exposed  all  day  to  the 
heats,  the  rains,  and  the  frosts  of  heaven  —  shuffling  his 
ungainly  trunk  along  in  an  elaborate  and  painful  mo- 
tion —  he  was  enabled  to  retire  at  night  to  enjoy  himself 
at  a  club  of  his  fellow  cripples  over  a  dish  of  hot  meat  and 
vegetables,  as  the  charge  was  gravely  brought  against 
him  by  a  clergyman  deposing  before  a  House  of  Com- 
mons' Committee  —  was  this,  or  was  his  truly  paternal 
consideration,  which  (if  a  fact)  deserved  a  statue  rather 


Twenty-one  Cents  and  a  Quarter     219 

than  a  whipping-post,  and  is  inconsistent,  at  least,  with 
the  exaggeration  of  nocturnal  orgies  which  he  has  been 
slandered  with  —  a  reason  that  he  should  be  deprived 
of  his  chosen,  harmless,  nay,  edifying  way  of  life,  and 
be  committed  in  hoary  age  for  a  sturdy  vagabond  ? 

**  There  was  a  Yorick  once  whom  it  would  not  have 
shamed  to  have  sat  down  at  the  cripples*  feast,  and  to 
have  thrown  in  his  benediction,  ay,  and  his  mite  too,  for 
a  companionable  symbol.     *  Age,  thou  hast  lost  thy  breed.' 

"  Half  of  these  stories  about  the  prodigious  fortunes 
made  by  begging  are  (I  verily  believe)  misers'  calumnies. 
One  was  much  talked  of  in  the  public  papers  some  time 
since,  and  the  usual  charitable  inferences  deduced.  A 
clerk  in  the  bank  was  surprised  with  the  announcement 
of  a  five-hundred-pound  legacy  left  him  by  a  person  whose 
name  he  was  a  stranger  to.  It  seems  that  in  his  daily 
morning  walks  from  Peckham  (or  some  village  there- 
abouts) where  he  lived,  to  his  office,  it  had  been  his 
practice  for  the  last  twenty  years  to  drop  his  halfpenny 
duly  into  the  hat  of  some  blind  Bartimeus  that  sat  begging 
alms  by  the  wayside  in  the  borough.  The  good  old  beg- 
gar recognised  his  daily  benefactor  by  the  voice  only, 
and  when  he  died  left  all  the  amassings  of  his  alms  (that 
had  been  half  a  century,  perhaps,  in  the  accumulating) 
to  his  old  bank  friend.  Was  this  a  story  to  purse  up 
people's  hearts  and  pennies  against  giving  an  alms  to  the 
blind?  or  not  rather  a  beautiful  moral  of  well-directed 
charity  on  one  part,  and  noble  gratitude  upon  the 
other  ? 

"  I  sometimes  wish  I  had  been  that  bank  clerk. 

"  I   seem   to  remember  a  poor  old  grateful  kind  of 


220  Crimes  of  Charity 

creature,  blinking  and  looking  up  with  his  no  eyes  in  the 
sun. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  I  could  have  steeled  my  purse 
against  him? 

"  Perhaps  I  had  no  small  change. 

"  Reader,  do  not  be  frightened  at  the  hard  word  im- 
position, imposture  —  give,  and  ask  no  questions.  Cast 
thy  bread  upon  the  waters.  Some  have  unawares  (like 
this  bank  clerk)  entertained  angels. 

**  Shut  not  thy  purse-strings  against  painted  distress. 
Act  a  charity  sometimes.  When  a  poor  creature  (out- 
wardly and  visibly  such)  comes  before  thee,  do  not  stay 
to  inquire  whether  the  '  seven  small  children '  in  whose 
name  he  implores  thy  assistance,  have  a  veritable  ex- 
istence. Rake  not  into  the  bowels  of  unwelcome  truth 
to  save  a  halfpenny.  It  is  good  to  believe  him.  If  he 
be  not  all  that  he  pretendeth,  give,  and  under  a  personate 
father  of  a  family,  think  (if  thou  pleasest)  that  thou  hast 
relieved  an  indigent  bachelor.  When  they  come  with 
their  counterfeit  looks,  and  mumping  tones,  think  them 
players.  You  pay  your  money  to  see  a  comedian  feign 
these  things,  which,  concerning  these  poor  people,  thou 
canst  not  certainly  tell  whether  they  are  feigned  or  not." 

The  Superintendent,  a  man  of  about  forty, 
of  good  appearance  and  strong  physique,  had 
just  assumed  his  duties.  Previously  he  had 
been  manager  of  a  department  store.  What 
recommended  him  to  his  new  position  was  his 
reputation  as  a  stern  disciplinarian  and  strict 
economist.     The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  take  an 


Twenty-one  Cents  and  a  Quarter     221 

exact  inventory  of  the  property  of  the  institution, 
then  an  approximation  of  what  was  necessary  for 
the  subsistence  of  each  individual  —  so  much 
flour,  so  much  salt,  so  much  meat  —  everything 
measured  and  weighed  exactly.  Instead  of  say- 
ing "  so  many  people  "  the  Superintendent  would 
say  "  so  many  mouths."  This  done  he  proceeded 
to  deliver  to  the  cook  the  exact  quantity  necessary 
every  day  —  the  washerwoman  received  every 
week  an  exact  quantity  of  soap  —  everything  in 
order,  strictly,  soldierlike.  The  old  people  were 
compelled  to  get  out  and  into  bed  at  certain  hours, 
compelled  to  report  on  certain  days.  Everything 
was  very  orderly,  only  the  mortality  of  the  in- 
mates Increased  that  year.  The  auditing  com- 
mittee saw  no  connection  between  the  regularity 
and  orderly  keeping  of  accounts  and  the  death  of 
the  old  people.  There  was  another  Item  that  did 
not  interest  them,  namely,  what  was  saved  on 
food  was  spent  on  additional  help.  Not  to  attend 
the  old  people,  oh,  no !  but  to  keep  the  lawn  and 
garden  in  order.  The  Superintendent  was 
praised.  His  keeping  the  things  In  such  fine  con- 
dition augmented  the  list  of  donors.  The  fund 
grew.  It  was  invested  in  real  estate,  of  course! 
To  what  other  purpose  could  it  be  invested! 
Still  another  expense  was  not  considered.  But 
it  was  really  a  very  small  one.  A  few  boards  of 
white  pine  —  a  grave  In  Potter's  field.     A  mouth 


222  Crimes  of  Charity 

is  closed  —  a  name  is  erased.     The  cook  receives 
less  flour,  less  sugar. 

Ah,  the  poor,  the  poor  I  When  they  are  young 
they  are  called  "  Hands."  When  they  get  old 
they  are  labelled  "  Mouths." 


VISITING  DAY 

IF  you  want  to  see  the  product  of  modern  so- 
ciety all  at  once,  have,  so  to  say,  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  centralised  misery,  go  to  see  a 
"  Home  "  on  visiting  day.  Look  at  the  expect- 
ant faces  of  the  inmates ;  the  ones  that  have  some- 
body "  outside."  Cripples,  consumptives,  idiots, 
diseased  of  all  kinds  pour  in  one  after  another. 
Some  bring  little  bags  of  fruit  and  cakes.  One 
interchange  was  especially  interesting  to  me.  In 
a  greasy  old  newspaper  a  boy  of  twelve  brought 
butts  of  cigarettes  and  cigars  to  his  old  grand- 
father. In  exchange  he  received  a  boiled  potato 
and  a  few  lumps  of  sugar.  The  transaction  over, 
the  young  one  went  his  way  and  the  old  fellow 
retired  to  his  room  to  dry  up  the  remnants  of  other 
men's  pleasures.  This  old  fellow  was  held  in 
great  esteem  by  the  others.  Not  every  old  grand- 
father could  obtain  the  weed  from  his  grandson. 
To  an  old  man  news  was  brought  that  his  daughter 
had  died.  "When?"  he  asked  quietly.  "Yes- 
terday." "  Why  did  you  not  let  me  know  imme- 
diately?" he  inquired.  "I  was  very  anxious  to 
know.  As  for  us,  the  sooner  we  die  the  better 
it  is." 


224  Crimes  of  Charity 

Those  who  come  to  visit  "  their  people  "  at  the 
Homes  depend  partially  or  wholly  on  charity. 
No  appearances  are  kept  up.  Information  is 
given,  advice  received.  What  to  say,  how  to  be- 
have, where  to  go.  Each  class  has  its  wisdom. 
The  paupers  have  theirs.  If  the  supporters  of 
organised  charity  could  hear  what  is  thought  and 
said  about  them  and  their  good  deeds !  Perhaps 
we  would  have  a  few  homes  less,  but  also  the  num- 
ber of  people  needing  homes  would  be  reduced. 

As  long  as  you  need  "  hands,"  you  will  produce 
"  mouths." 


EMPLOYMENT  AGENCIES 

IN  previous  chapters  I  have  spoken  of  the 
"  Bureau,"  and  how  they  procure  "  help  "  in 
time  of  trouble.  The  employment  depart- 
ment of  the  charities  procure  help  in  time  of 
peace,  industrial  peace,  also.  When  a  man  or 
woman  has  applied  for  charity  and  the  investiga- 
tor judges  the  applicant  fit  for  work,  he  is  im- 
mediately sent  upstairs  to  the  Manager  of  the 
Bureau,  who  is  telephonically  notified  about  the 
*'  customer  "  and  his  peculiarities. 

*'  Mr.  Gordon  —  Hello  —  give  him  a  squeeze 
about  his  relations  and  how  long  he  is  out  of  work 
—  also  don't  forget  to  ask  him  again  about  his 
oldest  son.  He  told  me  that  the  boy  is  in  the 
army  —  of  course  he  is  lying.     Lazy?     Sure." 

Thus  he  is  introduced  to  the  Manager  of  the 
Bureau.  Once  upstairs  the  applicant  is  taken  in 
hand  by  this  gentleman  and  *'  given  a  squeeze  "  to 
see  whether  all  he  says  tallies  with  what  he  had 
previously  told  the  investigator. 

The  language  used,  the  insults  heaped  upon  him 
would  stir  the  blood  of  any  man  —  prompt  him 
to  violence,  perhaps,  but  the  applicants  have  no 

235 


226  Crimes  of  Charity 

blood.  Overwork,  illness,  hunger  and  lastly,  the 
investigator,  have  turned  it  into  water.  Humbly, 
meekly,  the  man  or  woman  stands  it  all ;  then  he  is 
told  to  come  to-morrow  at  8  A.  M.  The  office 
only  opens  to  the  public  at  lo.  "  Why  do  you 
have  them  wait  two  hours?  "  I  asked  the  Manager. 
"  Just  to  get  them  trained  to  get  up  early,"  he 
answered.  "  You  know  the  proverb  '  Early  to 
bed  and  early  to  rise.'  " 

Meanwhile  they  crowd  the  waiting  room  and 
the  "  real "  visitors,  the  committee,  think  the 
Manager  very,  very  busy.  The  employers  that 
apply  for  "  help  "  from  the  charities  are  the  worst 
ones.  Long  hours,  low  wages  and  the  meanest 
working  conditions  imaginable. 

To  learn  the  situation  exactly,  I  myself  applied 
for  a  job  at  a  "  charity  "  office.  I  passed  the  ex- 
amination of  the  Manager  and  was  given  a  slip 
with  name  and  address  of  the  employer,  a  cut 
glass  manufacturer  in  West  ii6th  Street,  and  a 
postal  card  stamped  and  addressed  to  the  office. 
I  was  to  put  the  missive  in  a  letter  box  if  I  were 
accepted. 

The  next  morning  at  7,  as  per  instructions  from 
the  Manager,  I  knocked  at  the  door  and  gave  the 
office  boy  the  piece  of  paper  from  the  charities. 
I  had  waited  a  half  hour  when  the  foreman,  a  big, 
strong  brute,  measured  me  up  from  head  to  toe, 
then  shook  his  head,  dissatisfied  as  to  my  physical 


Employment  Agencies  227 

condition  probably,  and  I  was  ushered  into  the 
office.  Another  wait,  hat  in  hand.  Then  the 
employer  wheeled  around  on  his  chair,  and  a  new 
examination  started.  He  was  especially  anxious 
to  know  the  time  of  my  arrival  in  New  York.  I 
pretended  to  be  a  newcomer,  because  I  knew  that 
he  would  not  employ  me  were  he  to  know  that  I 
was  longer  than  three  months  In  New  York. 
They  only  want  "  greenhorns."  They  hunt  for 
them  around  "  Castle  Garden  "  and  in  the  chari- 
ties. I  satisfied  him,  and  he  announced  to  me  the 
glad  news  that  I  was  to  receive  twenty  francs  a 
week.  He  did  not  say  four  dollars  —  he  said 
twenty  francs  because  I  told  him  I  was  a  French- 
man. 

The  foreman  was  Instructed  to  put  me  in  the 
galvanising  room.  When  I  entered  the  shop  the 
fumes  of  vitriol,  ammonia,  sulphur  and  other 
chemical  stuff  almost  choked  me.  The  foreman 
had  a  good  laugh  at  my  face,  then  he  placed  me 
in  a  corner  where  lay  a  box  of  saw-dust.  From 
another  corner  strips  of  galvanised  metal  were 
thrown  to  me  and  I  had  to  dry  them  up  with  the 
saw-dust  and  pile  them  In  another  box  which  was 
taken  away  every  time  it  was  full.  The  fumes 
and  the  smoke  were  so  dense  that  I  could  not  see 
any  of  my  co-workers  until  noontime.  Then  I 
saw  them  all,  about  forty  men  and  women,  all 
"  greenhorns,"  Jews,  Italians,  Poles,  pale,  hungry, 


228  Crimes  of  Charity 

dirty,  ragged,  worn  out,  and  all  of  them  coughing 
—  coughing  so  that  the  whole  street  echoed  with 
the  thunder  of  the  musketry  of  the  soldiers  of 
modern  industry.  A  half  hour  for  lunch  and  back 
to  the  shop.     We  worked  until  6.30  P.  M. 

I  was  discharged  because  I  was  reported  to  have 
spoken  English  to  the  caretaker,  who  pushed  me 
roughly  away  with  his  broom  when  cleaning. 
Paying  me  63  cents  for  my  day's  labour  the  boss 
called  me  liar  and  tramp.  I  had  committed  a 
crime.  I  spoke  English.  I  was  longer  than 
three  months  in  America. 

That  the  working  conditions  were  worse  in  that 
factory  than  elsewhere,  where  "  regular  "  work- 
ingmen  are  employed,  goes  without  saying.  Sixty- 
three  hours  a  week  for  pay  ranging  from  three 
dollars  to  seven  dollars  and  fifty  cents  for  men 
and  two  dollars  to  four  dollars  for  women.  The 
people  working  there  dare  not  look  at  one  another, 
dare  not  speak,  dare  not  question.  They  know 
they  are  spied  upon  and  reported  to  the  charity 
office  from  where  they  are  all  helped.  And  this 
employer  is  mentioned  very  flatteringly  for  his  co- 
operation with  the  employment  office  to  "  redeem  " 
the  sunken  poor.  In  reality,  he  is  plying  his  mur- 
derous trade  under  the  protection  of  charity.  His 
work  would  cost  him  three  times  as  much  if  he 
performed  it  with  "  regular "  men  under  usual 
conditions.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  man  started 


Employment  Agencies  229 

out  with  nothing  and  amassed  a  fortune  in  a  few 
years.  When  a  man  has  reached  the  top,  seven 
dollars  and  fifty  cents  per  week,  he  is  discharged 
as  "  lazy,"  and  another  one  at  four  dollars  is 
started  in. 

This  is  not  the  only  factory  of  the  kind.  Scores 
of  them  grow  and  thrive  under  the  kind  protec- 
tion of  organised  charity,  to  the  glory  of  God  and 
the  humane  century  we  live  in. 

"  Dear  Sir  —  You  employ  a  number  of  men  and  women 
in  your  factory.  Labour  is  very  floating  nowadays  and 
we  know  the  difficulty  employers  have  to  secure  the  right 
sort  of  help.  When  in  need  of  help,  why  not  ring  us 
up  ?  We  always  have  a  number  of  men  and  women  who 
would  not  only  be  willing  to  accept  any  work  at  all, 
but  who  would  feel  extremely  thankful  to  the  one  giving 
them  a  chance. 

"  When  you  get  help  from  us  you  know  you  get  the 
right  kind.  In  addition  to  that,  you  assist  us  in  our 
work  of  redeeming  the  poor. 

"  Respectfully  yours, 


"  Manager  of  Employment  Bureau. 
"  P.  S. —  Right  now  we  have  some  excellent  help  for 
your  line." 

This  is  a  copy  of  a  circular  letter  sent  by  the 
employment  bureau  of  an  organised  charity  to  the 
manufacturers.  Just  think  of  this  fact.  One  of 
these  little  sweatshop  owners  receiving  such  a  let- 


230  Crimes  of  Charity 

ter  when  Samuel  Gordon,  who  was  getting  six  dol- 
lars a  week,  takes  heart  and  demands  a  raise  in 
his  wages.  Read  that  letter  twice  and  carefully 
and  see  what  It  means.  The  employer  is  actually 
committing  a  good  deed  when  he  fires  one  of  these 
men  getting  seven  dollars  or  eight  dollars  a  week 
and  takes  on  one  sent  by  the  charities.  Think  of 
the  P.  S.  "  Right  now  we  have  a  number  of  ex- 
cellent help  for  your  line."  Tempting  I  is  it  not? 
"  And  be  sure  the  men  we  send  you  are  not  going 
to  make  any  trouble  —  an  hour  or  so  more  every 
day  and  a  dollar  or  so  less  every  week  does  not 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  one  willing  to  work," — 
This  over  the  phone. 


MY  LAST  WEEK  IN  THE  WAITING 
ROOM 

MONDAY. 
When  the  door  is  opened  more  than 
a  hundred  people  stream  in.  They 
have  all  been  waiting  outside,  some  sitting  on  the 
stairs,  others  walking  to  and  fro.  Of  course, 
every  passer-by  notices  them  and  knows  who  they 
are,  "  Applicants  for  charity." 

I  have  heard  that  remark  many  a  time  when 
passing  by.  Fearing  I  might  be  taken  for  one  of 
them  I  have  decided  always  to  wear  a  flower  in 
the  lapel  of  my  coat.  They  will  know  that  no 
man  who  applies  for  charity  wears  flowers.  I  also 
whistle  and  sing  when  I  ascend  the  stairs.  The 
other  people,  the  investigators  and  ofllce  workers 
don't  seem  to  take  precautions  in  this  respect. 
They  take  it  for  granted  that  no  one  will  think 
this  of  them. 

Mrs.  B.,  the  investigator,  calls  me  aside  and 
tells  me  of  the  wonderful  play  she  has  seen  last 
night.  She  is  stage  struck  and  is  even  dreaming 
of  her  lost  career.  Meanwhile,  the  people,  the 
applicants,  crowd  the  room.     I  know  that  several 

231 


232  Crimes  of  Charity 

of  them  are  there  to  see  Mrs.  B.  and  I  want  to 
cut  our  conversation  short,  but  she  has  button- 
holed me  and  pours  out  her  whole  soul.  Other 
investigators  arrive  and  each  one  goes  to  her  desk 
to  finish  up  a  report.  Some  of  them  want  to  see 
the  manager  and  report  personally  on  matters  of 
importance.  When  I  got  through  with  Mrs.  B. 
the  waiting  room  is  overcrowded.  More  than 
fifty  women  and  men  are  walking  around  the  room, 
pacing  up  and  down  the  floor.  There  are  not 
enough  chairs.  A  young  woman  sits  in  a  corner, 
in  the  darkest  spot.  She  has  a  black  shawl  over 
her  head  and  has  drawn  it  so  far  over  the  face  that 
only  her  eyes  are  seen.  She  is  ashamed.  She 
does  not  want  to  be  seen  by  the  others.  I  would 
like  to  know  who  it  Is !  —  would  like  to  see  her 
face  —  yet  every  time  I  pass  her  she  draws  the 
shawl  more  over  her  face  —  what  beautiful,  lust- 
rous eyes!  Where  have  I  seen  them?  Where? 
She  is  in  mourning. 

It's  remarkably  quiet  to-day.  It's  so  warm. 
The  investigators  loll  around  and  tell  one  another 
where  and  how  they  have  passed  the  week-end, 
Saturday  and  Sunday.  Mr.  Cram  comes  up  and 
makes  an  inspection.  "  We've  got  some  new  cus- 
tomers," he  remarks  to  the  office  boy.  "  Plenty," 
the  boy  answers.  I  can't  help  thinking,  what  will 
become  of  that  boy?  He  Is  so  cynical,  so  stony- 
hearted, so  cruel.     Nothing  astonishes  him,  noth- 


My  Last  Week  in  the  Waiting  Room     233 

ing  softens  him.  He  makes  fun  of  the  most  piti- 
ful situation.  As  he  walks  to  and  fro  calling  the 
ones  wanted  by  the  Manager  or  bringing  the 
records  from  the  safe,  he  sneers  at  all  the  people 
in  the  waiting  room.  If  a  woman  is  in  his  way,  he 
bows  mockingly  and  hisses  out,  "  My  lady  is  in 
my  way!  "  Purposely  he  jolts  the  men  and  then 
he  demands  excuses. 

Of  late  he  has  practised  spitting  at  a  distance. 
He  takes  a  good  aim  at  an  old  man  or  woman  and 
from  a  distance  of  ten  to  twelve  feet  he  hits  his 
target.  When  successful  he  exults  —  champion 
of  the  world  —  greatest  marksman.  Of  course, 
he  does  it  secretly.  Suddenly  you  see  a  man  dry- 
ing his  face  or  cleaning  his  beard. 

The  office  is  in  love  with  the  boy.  He  is  the 
pet.  But  still,  what  will  become  of  him?  How 
will  he  be  father,  husband,  friend?  I  once  asked 
him:  "Say,  Sam,  what  do  you  like  best? 
What  do  you  do  in  your  free  time?"  "Oh, 
nothing  in  particular,"  was  his  answer,  while 
he  bit  into  a  fresh  piece  of  chewing  gum.  "  The- 
atre, base-ball,  ice  cream?"  "No,  nothing  in 
particular,"  he  again  answered.  He  is  dead  to 
everything.  He  is  blase.  "  Yes,  Sam,  but  what 
do  you  intend  to  be  when  you  grow  up?  "  "  I 
will  work  up  here  —  work  up  to  the  top  —  you 
understand?"  "Yes,  but  suppose  a  time  comes 
when  there  will  not  be  any  poor."     "  Well,  I 


234  Crimes  of  Charity 

hope  the  time  will  never  come,"  and  Sam  walks 
away. 

There  Is  a  commotion  at  the  door.  A  woman 
wants  to  enter  the  waiting  room  without  a  letter 
of  invitation.  She  wants  to  see  the  Manager. 
She  cries  and  curses.     The  janitor  puts  her  out. 

The  "  derelicts  "  become  restless  and  nervous. 
It's  10  o'clock.  A  woman  seated  near  the  one 
with  the  shawl  over  her  face  wants  to  start  a  con- 
versation. She  answers  her  very  curtly  and  turns 
her  back.  The  office  boy  makes  his  appearance 
again.  Sam  announces  that  the  "  Boss "  has 
come  and  work  starts  immediately.  "  Martha 
Blum"— "Joe  Crane  "—"  Rita  Somers"— and 
every  time  a  name  is  called  the  people  raise  their 
heads  at  once.  The  lucky  ones  go  into  the  other 
room  to  be  questioned.     Work  has  started. 

In  the  factories  wheels  go  round,  clothes  and 
shoes,  and  tables  and  chairs  are  made  —  consump- 
tives and  unfortunates  also.  Here,  souls  are 
torn,  men  and  women  degraded,  insulted  —  that's 
their  work.  It's  a  bedlam.  Accusations  from 
one  side  and  cries  and  appeals  for  pity  from  the 
other.  They  don't  remain  long.  Still  crying 
they  are  put  out  —  and  others  are  called  in : 
"  George  Hand,"  "  Carl  Wender,"  "  Gib  Ralph," 
"  Margaret  Cy  " —  and  others,  others  wend  their 
way  towards  the  other  room. 

"  The  terror  "  has  come.     Seeing  such  a  big 


My  Last  Week  in  the  Waiting  Room     235 

crop,  she  gets  ready  the  threshing  machine.  From 
her  room  the  cries  are  louder  than  from  any  two 
put  together.  The  applicants  also  stay  longer; 
she  takes  delight  in  their  torture.  Monday  and 
Friday  are  her  days.  A  woman  has  taken  a  fit. 
The  janitor  is  called.  He  drags  her  out  and  lays 
her  down  in  the  hall.  An  old  man  tries  to  read 
the  engraved  letters  above  the  door.  They  were 
once  gilded,  the  gold  has  partly  fallen  off  and  it 
is  difficult  to  read  them.  Slowly  he  reads  them 
out,  "  Whosoever  stretches  a  begging  hand,  give 
and  don't  question."  He  shakes  his  head  doubt- 
fully and  tries  to  read  the  inscription  on  the  other 
door,  "  For  the  poor  of  the  land  shall  never 
cease."  From  the  "  terror's "  room  comes  a 
young  woman.  Her  eyes  are  red  and  tears  run 
down  her  pale  cheeks.  She  hurries  out  as  though 
some  one  was  running  after  her.  What  has  the 
"  terror  "  done  to  her?  Look  how  she  runs!  I 
open  the  door  and  look  after  her.  How  she  runs 
—  how  she  runs.  I  turn  round.  The  "  terror  " 
is  near  me.  She  is  hurrying  —  ah!  She  tri- 
umphs. "What  happened?"  I  ask.  "She  got 
her  medicine  —  a  good  strong  dose,  too."  She 
looks  around  the  waiting  room,  searching  for  a 
victim.  She  notices  the  woman  with  the  covered 
face. 

"  What  Is  your  name?  "     I  don't  hear  the  an- 
swer, but  the  "  terror  "  bids  her  follow  her  into 


236  Crimes  of  Charity 

the  other  room.  I  listen.  The  woman  has 
awakened  my  interest.  It's  very  quiet.  The  in- 
vestigator raises  her  voice  a  few  times  but  is  met 
with  such  a  quiet,  calm  answer  that  it  goes  on 
in  the  ordinary  conversational  tone  for  a  few  min- 
utes.    Then  I  hear  the  woman  cry. 

But  my  attention  is  called  elsewhere.  An  ap- 
plicant does  not  want  to  get  out  of  the  investiga- 
tor's room.  She  yells,  cries  and  screams.  "  I 
want  to  see  the  Manager  —  I  want  to  see  the 
Manager  —  I  have  been  put  out  of  my  rooms  — 
my  children  are  on  the  streets."  The  investiga- 
tor, Mrs.  B.,  uses  force,  but  the  woman  holds  on 
at  the  door.  "  I  want  to  see  the  Manager.  You 
can't  torture  me  that  way.  I  want  to  see  the 
Manager."  She  screams  yet  louder.  The  jani- 
tor is  called  and  he  does  his  duty.  Takes  hold 
of  the  woman  and  puts  her  out.  The  woman 
screams  in  the  street.  A  policeman  Is  called  and 
the  officer  gives  the  woman  notice  that  he  will 
arrest  her  if  she  does  not  desist.  She  still 
screams  and  refuses  to  go.  The  door  opens  and 
she  sees  the  Manager  as  he  orders  her  arrest  for 
disturbing  the  peace.  The  test  Is  applied.  Of 
course  she  will  be  Immediately  released.  The 
Manager  telephones  to  the  station  at  once  that 
they  should  release  the  woman.  Mrs.  B.,  the  in- 
vestigator, is  walking  nervously  from  one  desk 
to  the  other. 


My  Last  Week  in  the  Waiting  Room     237 

"That  pest  —  that  pest  —  she  would  not  get 
out.  I  will  give  her  a  lesson.  She  will  not  for- 
get as  long  as  she  lives." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  inquire. 

"  For  the  last  six  months  she  bothered  me  that 
she  wants  to  move  out  from  where  she  lives.  The 
rooms  are  too  dark,  the  walls  are  damp  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  All  she  wanted  of  course  was 
to  get  out  of  my  district.  You  know,  I  keep  them 
pretty  well  together,  in  a  few  blocks.  You  want 
to  move  —  well  I  I  gave  her  the  chance  of  her 
life.  Let  her  be  on  the  street  a  few  days,  then 
she  will  know  how  to  appreciate  her  house." 

That  old  fellow  who  tried  to  read  the  inscrip- 
tion comes  up  to  me,  "  How  long  will  I  have  to 
wait?  I  have  been  called  for  nine  A.M.  It's 
half  past  eleven  now." 

"  I  don't  know,  old  man.  You  just  have  to 
wait."  He  shakes  his  head  and  goes  back  to  his 
place  on  the  bench,  and  again  reads  the  inscrip- 
tion. 

"  The  terror  "  has  released  her  victim.  Com- 
ing out  the  woman  leaves  her  face  uncovered. 
She  has  gone  one  step  lower,  robbed  of  the  sense 
of  shame.  She  is  young  and  beautiful.  Pale, 
very  pale.  Her  eyes  are  red.  She  cried.  She 
has  got  to  see  the  Manager.  Before  entering 
the  sanctum  she  fixes  her  stray  hair  and  dries  her 
eyes.     *'  She  is  green,"   remarks  the  office  boy. 


238  Crimes  of  Charity 

"Doesn't  know  the  trade."  "Who?"  I  ask. 
"  The  lady  in  black."  He  looks  around:  "Gee 
—  they  done  quick  work." 

The  investigators  are  in  a  hurry  to-day.  Noon. 
Only  a  few  employes  remain.  All  the  others  go 
to  lunch.  About  forty  applicants  still  in  the  wait- 
ing room.  Their  names  have  not  been  called. 
The  janitor  orders  them  out.  Again  they  throng 
the  street.  He  drives  them  off  the  stairs.  They 
tramp  the  sidewalk,  up  and  down,  and  it's  so 
very  hot,  96  degrees.  I  lunch  with  the  others. 
Mrs.  H.  still  talking  about  yesterday's  show  and 
about  that  woman  that  did  not  want  to  obey  her 
and  get  out.  They  talk  shop  during  lunch.  Sam's 
prowess  as  a  spitting  marksman  is  highly  praised. 
"  Champion  spitter  of  the  world,"  Cram  pro- 
claims him.  "  A  clever  boy."  "  A  sensible  boy." 
"  Gay."  "  Clever,  very  clever."  "  He  will  be 
a  man."     "  Oh,  yes,  oh,  yes.     He  will  rise  high." 

Their  admiration  for  Sam  is  boundless.  They 
recall  his  repartees  on  different  occasions  and  how 
he  once  cynically  remarked  to  the  Manager :  "  A 
woman  died  in  the  waiting  room,  sir.  Shall  I 
bring  you  her  record?  P.  B.  9761  is  the  num- 
ber." He  got  his  raise  not  long  after  that.  The 
Manager  was  struck  by  the  boy's  efficiency  and 
his  splendid  memory. 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  B.,  "  he  knows  all  the  rec- 
ords by  heart.     G.  D.  7851  has  four  children. 


My  Last  Week  in  the  Waiting  Room     239 

husband  dead,  three  dollars  r.  c.  cl.  Just  ask 
him  when  you  want  to  know.  He  will  tell  it  off 
before  you  can  say  a  word  or  consider." 

Then  from  the  boy  the  discussion  drifted  to 
the  new  Manager  and  his  peculiarities  and  how 
he  compared  with  the  former  occupant  of  his  of- 
fice. "  He  is  too  lenient  with  the  people,"  says 
Mrs.  H.  "  Wait  until  he  gets  fooled  good  and 
hard,"  intervened  Cram.  "  Wait,  when  he  gets 
fooled  a  few  times  and  the  committee  grumble 
there  will  be  something  doing,  I  tell  you." 

The  lunch  finished,  only  Cram  and  I  returned 
to  the  office;  the  others  went  to  do  outside  work, 
investigating.  On  the  way  Cram  expounded  a 
new  theory:  The  charities  to  buy  an  island  some- 
where and  send  all  the  applicants  there  —  women 
and  children  separated  from  men  —  all  to  live  in 
one  huge  building  —  a  big  home  for  the  poor.  It 
would  cost  less,  he  figured. 

"  But  they  would  not  go  —  they  would  not  go, 
the  scoundrels  I  "  he  lamented.  *'  We  are  too  easy 
on  them.  We  are  really  doing  bad  work.  We 
are  encouraging  paupers,  our  rule  should  be :  don't 
give  a  cent  until  the  applicant  has  no  other  al- 
ternative, '  charity  or  suicide.'  But  we  are  all 
weaklings,  sentimental  trash!  "  Thus  speaking 
we  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  office.  Cram  turned 
his  head  and  pointing  to  the  people  walking  in 
front  of  the  building  he  made  a  broad  sweep  with 


240  Crimes  of  Charity 

his  hand :  '*  This  whole  damned  pack  is  the  de- 
generate fringe  of  our  century.  We  should  do 
away  with  them  and  not  help  them  live."  These 
are  the  sentiments  of  a  superior  officer  of  organ- 
ised charity.  "  Say,  Cram,  why  don't  you  resign 
your  position?  You  don't  like  the  poor.  You 
don't  believe  in  charity  —  resign  I  "  "  Neither  do 
I  like  pig  iron  and  I  don't  believe  In  love,"  he  an- 
swered in  bad  mood. 

What  does  it  mean?  I  had  a  smoke  with  him 
in  his  office  in  the  basement.  He  was  very  talka- 
tive. Spoke  about  his  past  and  future.  He  too 
hopes  to  reach  the  top.     A  good  man  for  the  job. 

At  two  o'clock  the  doors  are  again  thrown  open 
so  that  I  have  to  go  to  the  waiting  room.  They 
must  again  give  up  their  letters  to  the  janitor.  A 
scuffle  again.  One  fellow  wanted  to  enter  with- 
out invitation.  The  janitor  insisted  that  the  man 
go  down  stairs  to  Cram's  office,  while  the  man 
wanted  to  go  in.  Of  course  the  janitor  won  out. 
All  the  others,  the  applicants  helped  him.  It's  to 
their  interest  that  there  should  be  one  less,  they 
get  more  quickly  through  the  mill.  To-day  is 
committee  day.  The  big  room  is  prepared.  The 
office  boy  reads  roll  call  to  see  if  all  those  sum- 
moned are  present.  Then  he  looks  up  all  the 
records  and  places  them  on  the  table  at  the  place 
reserved  for  the  Manager.  The  people  waiting 
for  the  investigators  are  told  to  go  home  and  come 


My  Last  Week  in  the  Waiting  Room     241 

to-morrow.  How  they  cry!  How  they  cryl 
They  know  what  that  to-morrow  means.  It  may 
mean  a  week  and  more.  Meanwhile  the  pension 
is  suspended,  the  children  are  hungry.  "  To- 
morrow at  nine  A.  M.  big  sale  of  ladies'  under- 
wear," Sam  announces.  The  ones  with  letters  for 
the  committee  remain  in  the  room.  Not  very  long, 
though.  Automobiles  stop  before  the  door  and 
the  gentlemen  are  immediately  at  work. 

One  after  another  the  applicants  are  called  in. 
Their  records  and  the  investigators'  are  read  and 
a  new  cross-examination  starts.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Erikson?  A  young  woman  like 
you  to  apply  for  charity.     It's  a  shame." 

"  But,  sir,  I  have  been  ill."  The  Manager 
stops  her  impatiently. 

"What  about  your  children,  Erikson?"  One 
of  the  gentlemen  says:  "  Hadn't  you  better  give 
them  to  a  Home  and  then  be  free  and  go  to  work, 
as  a  servant  or  something.  We  could  easily  get 
you  a  place,  you  know." 

"  I  would  not  separate  from  the  children,  they 
are  too  small."  The  mother,  a  young  Scotch 
woman,  defends  her  offspring.  The  gentlemen 
look  at  one  another  a  few  seconds,  then  Mr.  R., 
the  chairman,  gets  up  and  yells  at  her: 

"You  would  not?  Hein,  you  would  not? 
We  too,  would  not.  How  do  you  like  it?  What 
do  you  want  with  your  three  small  kids?     Here 


242  Crimes  of  Charity 

is  a  special  place  for  them.  The  Orphan  House. 
That  settles  it." 

And  he  sits  down  again  and  looks  into  another 
record.  The  mother  wants  to  speak,  argue,  beg. 
"  That  settles  it."  She  is  shown  the  door.  I 
follow  her  outside.  She  remains  at  the  door  for 
a  few  minutes  thinking  hard.  Then  she  braces 
up,  stamps  her  feet,  and  says  very  loud,  "  No,  I 
won't,  I  won't,  I  won't  give  them  up."  She  goes 
away. 

Another  man  Is  called.  He  Is  a  consumptive 
and  very  weak.  He  is  even  offered  a  chair  and 
asked  to  sit  down.  He  wants  to  go  to  Colorado. 
They  are  not  very  brutal  to  him.  He  gets  the 
fare  and  a  few  dollars  extra.  '*  Good  luck." 
"  Thank  you." 

A  few  more  are  expedited  very  rapidly.  Most 
of  them  are  denied  any  help,  but  the  chairman  is 
very  "  soft "  to-day.  It's  very  hot  and  he  per- 
spires heavily.  The  boy  calls  out  a  name  and  an 
old  woman  comes  in.  She  has  a  very  dignified 
appearance  and  takes  exception  when  she  is  not 
politely  addressed  by  the  chairman.  He  always 
takes  delight  in  insulting  those  who  are  of  better 
appearance. 

**  Sir,"  the  woman  says,  "  in  a  moment  of  dis- 
tress I  have  applied  for  charity  and  I  am  given 
insults.     I  have  been  called  three  times  here  and 


My  Last  Week  in  the  Waiting  Room     243 

what  have  you  done  for  me?  Nothing.  Is  that 
charity?" 

"  Nothing  I  Nothing  1  "  screams  the  chairman, 
and  wipes  jthe  perspiration  from  his  brow,  "  and 
what  Is  that?  Here  we  sit  and  sweat  ourselves 
to  death  for  you.     Do  we  get  anything  for  that  ?  " 

"  Nelthei  did  I,"  the  woman  retorts.  But  the 
Manager  Is  on  his  feet  In  a  second,  he  tears  the 
application,  opens  the  door  and  pushes  her  out. 
"  Get  out,  get  out,  and  quick,"  and  though  the 
woman  Is  going  out,  the  janitor  helps  her  descend 
the  stairs. 

The  Manager  returns  to  the  committee  room. 
"  Yes,  that's  what  we  have  to  put  up  with !  " 

"  What  Impudence,"  says  one.  "  That's  what 
it  has  come  to,"  says  another.  "  Pretty  soon  they 
will  request  upholstered  chairs." 

"  I  would  have  had  her  arrested,"  pipes  out 
a  stupid  old  degenerate  who  never  says  a  word. 
They  keep  on  talking  that  way. 

"  Shall  we  continue?  "  the  manager  asks. 

"  Not  to-day,"  the  chairman  says,  "  It's  too  hot. 
Not  until  next  week.  They  say  that  they  don't 
get  anything  from  our  work,  see  how  they  will 
get  along  without  it."  He  again  wipes  off  his 
brow  and  goes  out  first.  The  others  follow  him. 
The  Manager  accompanies  them  to  the  stairs. 
The  automobiles  disappear. 


TUESDAY 

IS  there  no  way  to  finish  it  all ?  It's  noon  time 
now,  and  since  nine  o'clock  this  morning  I 
have  heard  cries  and  screams  and  curses.  I 
have  seen  tears,  tears,  tears.  The  investigators 
are  worse  than  tigers  to-day.  They  are  all  tak- 
ing revenge  on  the  poor  for  yesterday's  occur- 
rence, and  Sam  is  surpassing  himself.  He  spits 
again  at  one.  I  wish  it  happened  that  his  "  greet- 
ing "  fell  on  me.  I  would  beat  him  to  within 
an  inch  of  his  life.  Why  does  not  one  of  the 
applicants  twist  that  boy's  neck  I  They  are  fin- 
ished. They  have  no  blood.  Water  flows  in 
their  veins. 

No  sooner  did  the  doors  open  than  one  of  the 
applicants  had  a  fit.  Mrs.  H.,  pretending  the 
woman  faked,  began  to  curse  her. 

Mrs.  H.  jumped  at  one  of  the  women  and 
called  out  loudly:  "What  do  you  want  here? 
You  will  not  get  a  cent.  Get  out  or  I  will  have 
you  arrested."  The  woman  began  to  cry  and 
tear  her  hair,  but  Mrs.  H.  yelled,  "  Get  out,  get 
out,"  and  called  the  janitor  to  do  his  charitable 
work.     As  though  Mrs.   H.'s  temper  was  con- 

244 


Tuesday  245 

tagious,  all  the  other  investigators  were  horrible. 
Mrs.  B.  and  Mrs.  D.  and  Cram  and  Sam,  and 
even  that  slip  of  a  girl,  that  cripple  with  short 
arms  like  a  kangaroo,  treated  the  poor  as  though 
they  had  all  committed  the  worst  of  crimes.  That 
girl  is  only  six  weeks  on  the  job.  She  is  a  brute 
now.  No  wonder!  with  such  good  teachers. 
The  women  sat  on  the  benches  and  moaned  and 
cried  and  tore  their  hair.  That  woman  who  had 
a  fit  came  back  to  her  senses.  She  got  three  dol- 
lars and  was  sent  home.  Mrs.  H.  protested. 
She  still  insists  that  it  is  all  a  fake.  *'  Almost 
every  applicant  could  throw  a  fit,"  she  said;  "  one, 
two,  three  and  they  are  down  on  the  floor."  Sam 
said  that  he  has  a  new  business  plan:  a  school 
of  epilepsy,  ten  dollars  for  the  complete  course. 
They  could  earn  money  with  such  a  trade.  It 
was  the  worst  half-day  I  remember,  and  it  was 
very  hot. 

Really  it  could  be  called  the  "  Garden  of 
Tears."  All  the  eyes  are  red  and  cold  sweat 
covers  the  face  of  every  applicant.  As  Mrs.  B. 
passed  by  the  woman  in  black  who  had  her  face 
covered  with  her  shawl  she  tore  it  down  and 
yelled :  "  We  want  to  see  your  sweet  face, 
madame.  If  you  are  ashamed  to  show  yourself 
there  is  no  need  to  come  here  at  all." 

All  the  colour  was  gone  from  the  woman's  face. 
She  looked  more  like  a  ghost  than  a  human  being. 


246  Crimes  of  Charity 

Her  face  and  lips  white.  Her  sunken  eyes  black, 
her  mourning  clothes  accentuated  the  picture. 
She  sat  motionless  for  a  few  minutes  then  she 
covered  her  face  again  and  went  out  slowly.  I 
followed  her  to  the  door.  She  hesitated  about 
which  direction  to  take.  Several  times  she  re- 
traced her  steps  as  If  she  wanted  to  return  to 
the  waiting  room,  but  she  finally  decided  to  go 
toward  Fourteenth  Street.  I  saw  her  stop  before 
a  window  and  dry  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 
She  then  disappeared  down  Fourteenth  Street. 
"  What  will  become  of  her?  "  I  thought.  "  She 
has  two  small  children,  two  small  girls.  If  the 
mother  Is  In  the  street  what  will  become  of  the 
children?"  Why  did  that  brute  force  her  to 
show  her  face?  That's  what  she  always  does. 
When  I  once  asked  her  why  she  goes  around  to 
the  neighbours  of  an  applicant  and  announces  that 
"  So  and  so  belong  to  the  charities,"  she  answered 
me,  "  Whoever  is  ashamed  should  not  beg."  She 
would  brand  them  on  the  forehead  with  a  hot  iron. 

I  don't  see  why  the  Anti-Trust  Law  could  not 
be  applied  to  organised  charity  1  They  have  made 
a  "  trust  In  pity,'*  and  are  now  treating  the  pro- 
ducers and  consumers  as  they  like. 

That  woman.  Erikson,  who  said  yesterday,  "  I 
won't,  I  won't  give  them  up,"  stood  at  the  door 
more  than  an  hour.  She  was  not  let  in.  Her 
letter  was  taken  away  yesterday.     Now  she  will 


Tuesday  247 

have  to  make  out  another  application  and  wait  for 
an  answer.  The  committee  only  meets  next  week. 
I  went  out  and  asked  her  whether  she  had  decided 
to  give  the  children  to  an  orphan  home. 

"  No,  I  won't,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  wanted 
to  see  these  gentlemen  and  see  whether  I  could 
not  soften  their  hearts.  We  could  live  on  so 
little  —  on  so  little,"  she  pleaded. 

"  It's  of  no  use,"  I  told  her.  "  You  can't  soften 
their  hearts.     They  are  made  of  rock." 

"Then  what  can  I  do?"  she  asked,  crying. 

"  Anything  you  want,  or  you  don't  want,  but 
don't  come  around  here.  The  less  you  show  your- 
self here  the  better  for  you." 

She  looked  at  me  in  a  funny  way.  What  did 
she  think  of  me  anyhow  ?  Who  knows  what  sense 
she  gave  to  my  words!  God  knows.  I  don't 
know  what  people  will  think  when  they  read  this. 
If  they  only  knew  what  I  know.  There  is  no 
place  on  earth  to  duplicate  this  one.  Nowhere 
can  you  hear  and  see  what  you  hear  and  see  here. 
The  walls  and  pictures  and  benches  and  floors, 
everything  is  soaked  in  tears. 

The  Erikson  woman  got  hold  of  the  Manager 
on  the  stairs  while  he  was  going  to  his  lunch.  She 
cried.  He  listened  to  her  very  attentively,  then 
he  answered  in  that  silky  voice  of  his,  "  You  put 
the  chairman  In  a  very  bad  temper  yesterday,  but 
I  will  do  my  best  for  you.     Call  next  week."     She 


248  Crimes  of  Charity 

wanted  to  say  something  but  he  strode  away  with 
such  majesty  I  It's  of  no  use,  I  foresee.  She  will 
give  her  children  and  they  will  place  her  some- 
where as  a  servant.  There  is  a  great  demand  for 
domestic  help.  The  domestic  help  problem  is 
filling  the  columns  of  the  daily  papers.  The  of- 
fice will  do  Its  best  to  solve  the  problem. 

I  had  a  conversation  with  the  janitor.  He  told 
me  that  the  job  disgusts  him  and  if  times  were 
better  he  would  throw  it  up.  I  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment that  he  meant  the  brutality  of  the  investi- 
gators, but  no.  He  says  that  these  scoundrels, 
paupers,  are  yelping  too  much.  He  can't  eat  his 
dinner  in  peace.  He  lives  with  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren In  the  building.  What  will  become  of  his 
children  ?  The  sights  they  see  every  day  I  They 
understand  It  all.  His  little  girl,  a  child  of  seven, 
calls  the  people  "  delelicts."  "  Papa,  quick,  a 
delelict  threw  a  fit,"  she  called  out  yesterday  when 
coming  from  school  for  lunch.  The  father  was 
upstairs.  There  Is  an  old  man  coming  every 
Tuesday  for  his  two  dollar  pension.  Sam  an- 
nounced him  as  the  "  dean."  It  can't  be  Sam's 
expression.  He  must  have  heard  it  from  some 
one  else  of  the  staff.  The  cashier,  perhaps  1  She 
is  the  daughter  of  the  "  terror."  A  true  child, 
no  mistake  possible.  She  never  pays  out  a  cent 
without  a  remark.  If  It's  five  dollars  she  says, 
"  One  hundred  times  for  the  movies."     If  It's  ten 


Tuesday  249 

> 

dollars,    "  Sale    at    Wanamaker's,    latest    style 

French  hats  $9.98."     *'  If  it  were  in  my  power," 

she  once  told  me,  "  they  would  never  get  cash. 

Bread,  and  meat  and  vegetables,  but  not  a  cent  of 

cash." 

Strange  they  are  always  afraid  lest  the  poor 
have  too  much  joy !  They  would  like  to  see  them 
always  crying,  kneeling,  begging.  Before  going 
for  lunch.  Cram  had  a  long  chat  with  the  cashier. 
They  are  on  very  good  terms.  Mrs.  B.  even 
hinted  at  a  secret  engagement  between  the  two. 
What  a  difference  in  their  voices  when  they  speak 
to  one  another  and  when  they  speak  to  applicants ! 
It  seems  to  me  very  strange  to  see  them  smile  or 
laugh.  I  never  thought  them  capable  of  that.  I 
would  like  to  see  them  cry  once.  Some  spiritual 
pain,  or  a  brick  to  hit  them,  and  then  to  see  them 
cry.  Why  not?  They  have  drawn  enough  from 
the  fountain  of  suffering  —  the  eyes  of  the  poor. 

After  the  lunch  hour  I  was  given  the  address 
of  Mrs.  Erikson  and  told  to  reinvestigate  her  case. 
She  has  made  an  impression  on  the  manager.  He 
is  not  quite  so  brutal  as  his  subordinates.  He 
knows  that  charity  is  not  solving  the  question  of 
poverty  and  he  doubts  all  the  investigators.  But 
he  can't  help  it.  The  current  of  the  old  es- 
tablished system  Is  too  strong  for  him.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  they  are  all  working  against  him.  Not 
openly,  of  course.     They  are  continually  intrigu- 


2^0  Crimes  of  Charity 

ing  and  plotting  one  against  the  other.  The 
women  are  Machiavellis  in  petticoats.  Every 
move  is  spied,  reported.  They  even  investigate 
privately. 

I  visited  Mrs.  Erikson.  The  usual  thing. 
Have  I  grown  callous  ?  I  don't  seem  to  notice  the 
difference  between  one  case  of  poverty  and  any 
other.  Even  their  talk  does  not  interest  me  as 
before.  I  anticipate  everything:  two  months 
back  rent;  owe  eight  dollars  to  grocer;  one  dollar 
and  fifty  cents  to  the  coalman ;  gas  bill,  etc.  They 
all  owe  back  rent  and  the  grocer  and  the  coalman, 
the  gas  bill.  Their  rooms  are  all  alike.  Beds, 
table  and  chairs.  They  even  look  alike.  Their 
original  features  are  stamped  out  by  the  seal  of 
charity.  Their  voices  are  alike,  speaking  in  a 
subdued  minor  key  of  the  same  pitch  and  the  same 
pleading  inflection. 

Her  husband  had  been  a  longshoreman.  He 
must  have  been  a  beautiful  specimen  of  manhood. 
She  showed  me  his  picture,  a  blond  giant.  He 
died  of  Bright's  disease.  The  two  little  girls  re- 
semble their  father  very  much.  I  remember  that 
Mrs.  H.  doubted  the  morality  of  an  applicant 
because  the  child  did  not  resemble  his  father. 
The  woman  probably  likes  to  read  good  books,  I 
saw  Bjoernson  Bjornson's  novels  on  the  mantel- 
piece. She  gets  her  books  from  the  library  in 
Grand  Street;  I  saw  the  stamp.     I  don't  know 


Tuesday  251 

what  to  write  in  my  report.  The  woman  can't 
go  out  to  work.  She  has  to  attend  to  the  chil- 
dren. She  does  not  want  to  separate  from  them. 
She  even  hinted  at  suicide.  I  know  she  will  not 
do  it.  There  was  no  bread  in  the  house.  I  left 
her  a  few  cents.  The  neighbours  help  her  out, 
but  they  are  all  poor  people.  I  am  sure  that  the 
chairman  will  not  allow  her  any  pension.  She  will 
have  to  give  her  children  to  the  orphan  home.  I 
even  tried  to  convince  her  that  it  is  the  best  she 
could  do.     But  she  cried  so  much! 

It  is  terrible.  No  escape.  However,  I  make 
my  report ;  it  will  not  help  her  in  the  way  she  wants. 
She  has  antagonised  the  chairman  and  he  is  not 
a  forgiving  man.  And  to  think  that  he  repre- 
sents Christ  on  earth!  He  is  Charity  1  I  know 
that  he  is  one  of  the  worst  employers.  He 
crushes  every  strike  with  an  iron  fist.  He  has 
stopped  at  nothing  yet.  He  contributes  an  enor- 
mous sum  to  organised  charity.  Is  that  payment 
for  the  pleasure  they  give  him  of  torturing  the 
poor? 

I  cannot  eat,  nor  sleep.  The  cries  of  the  day 
echo  in  my  ears.  When  I  try  to  close  my  eyes  I 
see  a  woman  throwing  a  fit  or  how  they  force  one 
out.  I  always  fear  that  Sam  is  aiming  a  "  greet- 
ing "  at  me.  The  whole  day  long  the  image  of 
the  woman  in  black  directing  herself  towards 
Fourteenth  Street  pursued  me.     How  pale  she 


252  Crimes  of  Charity 

was  I  Where  Is  she  now?  Drunk  in  some  back 
room  of  a  saloon,  a  few  men  around  her;  and  she 
laughs  and  cries.  Early  in  the  morning  she  will 
return  to  the  children  and  buy  bread  and  milk 
with  the  price  of  a  night's  degradation.  How 
that  brute  tore  the  shawl  from  her  face  I  "  Show 
your  sweet  face,  madame.  If  you  are  ashamed 
to  show  yourself  there  is  no  need  to  come  here 
at  all."  When  a  young  woman  has  lost  her  shame 
why  should  she  beg?  It's  midnight  now.  I  can't 
sleep.  Where  is  she  now  ?  Where  are  they  all  ? 
All  those  organised  charity  has  driven  to  the 
street.  Come  out  I  Show  your  accusing  finger. 
And  the  ones  driven  to  an  early  grave.  Come 
and  show  yourselves.  Line  up  before  the  build- 
ing. When  the  morning  comes  and  the  sun  shines 
let  the  people  see  you  in  broad  daylight.  From 
your  fleshless  mouths  cry  "  Murderers  "  I  and  let 
the  whole  world  echo  with  your  cry. 


WEDNESDAY 

ON  arriving  at  the  office  I  perceived  signs 
that  this  is  my  last  week  here.  I  have 
criticised  freely  the  whole  system.  Some 
one  has  certainly  reported  me.  No  work  has 
been  given  me  for  the  last  few  days.  When  they 
sent  me  anywhere  it  was  only  a  pretence.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  re-investigation  of  Mrs.  Erik- 
son  was  also  given  to  the  "  Terror."  I  will  try 
to  read  her  report. 

I  passed  my  forenoon  near  Cram's  desk,  in  the 
basement.  Cram  is  in  excellent  spirits  to-day,  and 
though  very  gross  in  his  remarks  he  is  not  so 
brutal  as  usual.  He  cheers  them  up  when  they 
come  to  his  desk. 

"Hello,  mother,  what's  the  trouble?  Come, 
come,  don't  cry  —  don't  cry  —  it  will  be  all  right. 
Go  home,  we  will  attend  to  that." 

For  one  extreme  case  of  starvation  he  even 
recommended  immediate  relief.  It's  strange  how 
the  whole  basement  looks  more  cheerful.  Why, 
even  the  sun  has  put  in  an  appearance  —  hesitat- 
ingly, of  course.  He  doubts  whether  He  is 
wanted.     Some  broken  rays  play  on  the  desk  and 

253 


254  Crimes  of  Charity 

on  the  face  of  some  woman.  When  Cram  is  well 
disposed  even  the  sun  rejoices. 

Most  of  the  time  was  taken  up  by  a  stranded 
German  actor  and  his  wife.  They  were  so  ele- 
gantly dressed  that  we  thought  at  first  they  were 
visitors,  and  Cram  got  up  and  politely  asked 
them  their  wishes.  The  man  speaks  a  broken 
English.  He  said  they  were  actors  and  had  been 
influenced  to  come  from  Germany  on  a  bogus  con- 
tract. They  put  up  at  a  hotel  and  are  now  in 
debt  there.  Their  baggage  has  been  seized,  they 
have  no  money,  etc.,  etc.  Cram  offered  them 
chairs  and  attended  to  them  immediately.  He  put 
himself  into  communication  with  the  Manager 
and  with  the  Employment  Office.  Some  one  was 
sent  to  look  for  a  furnished  room,  and  another 
man  was  sent  to  the  hotel  to  take  out  their  bag- 
gage. Meanwhile  the  staff  all  came  down  to  look 
at  the  unusual  customers.  They  all  respect  and 
admire  actors.  Mrs.  H.  was  exceedingly  polite 
and  nice,  and  even  invited  them  to  lunch.  Of 
course  the  change  affected  the  whole  office.  Every 
one  spoke  about  them.  Sam  asked  whether  they 
were  "  real  "  actors.  Only  the  "  Terror  "  was 
suspicious.  When  they  departed  Cram  shook 
hands  with  them  and  expressed  his  wish  that  they 
would  soon  be  out  of  difficulty. 

"  Do  not  lose  heart,"  he  told  the  woman. 
"  Such  things  might  happen  to  any  of  us.     Brace 


Wednesday  255 

up,  brace  up."  He  was  all  smiles.  I  wonder 
what  these  people  think  of  organised  charity  1 
The  greatest  blessing  on  earth,  surely.  If  ever, 
in  better  times,  they  tell  the  story,  they  will  empha- 
sise everything.  They  were  politely  received, 
kindly  treated,  immediately  helped,  invited  to 
lunch. 

"  Organised  charity,"  they  will  say,  "  is  the 
most  beneficent  thing  of  the  century."  All  this 
because  Cram  was  in  good  spirits  to-day.  If  they 
had  come  yesterday,  or  if  they  were  to  come  to- 
morrow, and  find  Cram  in  his  usual  humour. 
"  An  actor?  You  are  an  actor?  And  why  don't 
you  go  to  the  actors?  Who  told  you  to  put  up 
at  a  hotel?  Come  to-morrow;  we  must  investi- 
gate." They  would  have  sat  for  hours  and  hours 
in  the  basement  and  heard  how  the  others  are 
treated.  As  it  is,  they  are  lucky  people.  Cram 
Is  in  extremely  good  spirits  to-day. 

Meanwhile,  all  the  others  had  to  wait,  but 
everything  went  smoothly.  Most  of  the  appli- 
cations were  accepted.  Some  were  marked 
"  urgent."  The  sun  took  courage  and  shone  even 
brighter  than  before.  "  How  sunny  it  is  to-day," 
he  said.  Had  this  been  so  yesterday  he  would 
have  turned  round  and  questioned  the  sunbeams: 
"  Where  do  you  live ?  How  old  are  you?  How 
many  children  have  you?  What  is  your  trade? 
You  give  light  and  warmth?     You  are  a  liar.     I 


2^6  Crimes  of  Charity 

have  never  seen  you  here  before.  Go  to  your 
usual  haunts.  Tramp,  vagabond,  get  out,  get  out 
of  here."  But  to-day  he  is  in  good  humour. 
What  has  happened?  He  asked  my  opinion 
several  times,  when  dealing  with  a  new  case.  He 
must  have  a  beautiful  voice.  While  studying  an 
application  he  sang,  mezza  voce,  the  aria  from 
Pagliacci.  Why  Pagliacci?  I  fancy  because  of 
the  stranded  actors.  I  told  him  to  cultivate  his 
God-given  gift.     He  answered : 

"Why?  Can't  I  speak  to  the  rabble  with  an 
uncultured  voice?  " 

"  But  this  is  not  the  be  all  and  end  all  of  your 
life?" 

"  I  am  too  poor  for  anything.  Voice  culture 
costs  money." 

How  ridiculous  it  all  sounded.  I  am  sure  from 
the  way  he  comports  himself  with  the  applicants 
they  think  him  a  millionaire  and  that  the  money 
given  comes  from  his  pocket.  Still,  I  was  glad  to 
hear  him  speak  about  his  poverty.  I  tried  to 
speak  to  him  about  the  roughness  of  the  investi- 
gators, but  he  is  a  closed  book  as  to  that. 

"  Severity  is  needed." 

I  was  afraid  to  continue  the  conversation  lest 
his  good  humour  evaporate,  so  I  changed  the  sub- 
ject. All  he  wanted  to  talk  about  was  women. 
Had  the  sun  anything  to  do  with  that?  The 
cashier,  his  sweetheart,  came  down  to  see  him  on 


Wednesday  257 

business.  A  pretence.  She  teased  him  about  the 
actor's  wife  and  he  let  it  go  as  if  there  was  some- 
thing in  it. 

"  I  invited  her  to  lunch,  you  know,"  he  said. 
What  a  liar.  Mrs.  H.  invited  them  both,  the 
actor  and  his  wife. 

I  am  going  to  see  the  Manager.  It's  settled. 
I  am  weary  and  worn.  But  I  won't  go  until  I 
have  told  him  all  I  think  of  this  rotten  place. 


AT  NIGHT 

FINISHED.  The  whole  thing  has  weighed 
so  heavily  on  me.  All  interest  in  the 
work  has  gone.  I  have  seen  every  form 
of  misery  the  human  mind  could  imagine.  The 
facts  merely  repeat  themselves.  Hunger,  degra- 
dation, insults,  epilepsy.  The  investigators,  the 
janitor,  the  policeman  and  Sam.  From  morning 
until  night  the  same  thing.  I  got  to  be  callous. 
Well,  people  get  trained  to  tolerate  the  most 
deadly  poisons. 

Thank  God,  my  soul  is  not  lost  there.  I  can- 
not say  that  I  come  out  unscathed.  Oh,  no.  But 
I  have  retained  my  soul.  Of  all  the  different 
forms  and  institutions  of  charity  which  have  come 
under  my  notice  this  is  the  worst  place.  Paris, 
London  and  Montreal  are  nothing  to  it.  Of  all 
the  mills,  here  they  grind  the  finest.  I  am  leav- 
ing. Just  going  to  finish  the  week.  And  I  gave 
Sam  a  thrashing.  I  boxed  his  ears  solidly  and 
felt  great  pleasure  in  doing  it.  But  this  is  not 
all.  I  did  it  in  front  of  the  applicants  in  the 
waiting  room  and  finished  it  up  thoroughly.  Let 
me  tell  you  how  it  happened. 

258 


At  Night  259 

About  three  weeks  ago  I  was  sent  to  investigate 
a  case.  Thoroughness  was  recommended.  The 
address  was  in  Sixty-sixth  Street.  Just  as  I  en- 
tered the  block  a  woman  I  had  met  casually  at  pub- 
lic meetings  greeted  me  and  asked  whether  I  would 
not  come  up  and  have  a  glass  of  cold  water.  It 
was  very  warm  and  I  did  not  refuse.  I  knew  the 
woman  but  did  not  know  her  name  and  she  did 
not  know  my  present  occupation.  Great  was  my 
astonishment  when  we  entered  the  very  same  house 
to  which  I  was  sent.  It  did  not  take  long  before 
I  knew  that  she  was  the  applicant. 

I  told  her  nothing,  but  Inquired  how  she  was 
getting  along  since  her  husband  died.  She  told 
me  that  some  relatives  sent  her  money  to  open  a 
grocery  store  and  that  a  society  in  which  her  hus- 
band was  an  active  member  gave  her  a  few  hun- 
dred dollars.  She  intended  to  peddle  with  laces 
and  curtains  and  perfumery.  She  even  showed 
me  a  bill  from  a  firm  from  whom  she  had  bought 
merchandise  to  the  value  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  to  start  with.  As  she  spoke  her  children 
came  in,  a  girl  of  about  ten  and  a  boy  of  eleven. 
The  children  had  never  seen  me  before.  They 
knew  some  one  from  the  charities  was  expected. 
I  divined  it  from  their  countenances  that  they  ex- 
pected to  be  questioned  and  had  been  schooled  by 
the  mother  as  to  what  to  answer.  I  was  right. 
When  I  asked  the  boy  if  he  skated  well,  he  an- 


260  Crimes  of  Charity 

swered  that  he  had  no  skates,  though  I  saw  them 
under  the  bed.  The  mother  interrupted  him: 
"  Sure  he  skates.  He  is  one  of  the  best  skaters 
in  the  block.  Put  them  on,  Himey."  The  boy 
looked  at  the  mother  understandingly,  as  though 
he  would  ask.  Is  this  not  the  one  ?  and  the  mother 
repeated  with  emphasis :  "  Put  them  on,  Himey." 
Pride,  mother  pride,  was  getting  hold  of  her. 
"  You  should  see  them  eat  after  a  run  I  "  I  sat 
in  the  house  a  long  time  and  convinced  myself  that 
she  did  not  need  help  from  charity.  Her  life 
and  the  life  of  her  children  would  be  wrecked. 
She  had  money.  Her  children  go  to  school  all 
day.  She  is  strong  and  young.  In  accepting  help 
from  charity  she  and  her  children  will  become  pau- 
perised. She  will  not  be  able  to  attend  to  her 
business.  She  will  have  to  do  it  secretly.  All 
things  taken  into  consideration,  she  will  be  the 
loser.  I  wanted  to  tell  her  all  that,  explain  to  her 
the  wrong  she  is  inflicting  on  herself  and  her  chil- 
dren, that  she  is  selling  her  soul  and  the  lives  of 
her  children  to  the  devil.  But  I  could  not  open 
my  mouth.     I  had  come  as  a  visitor. 

Then,  I  did  not  want  her  to  know  my  occupa- 
tion. Spy  of  Charity.  She  does  not  know  why 
I  do  It.  All  I  did  was  to  encourage  her,  and  I 
told  her  in  a  roundabout  way  not  to  allow  anybody 
to  patronise  her.  "  Attend  to  your  business  like 
a  man.     Be  a  business  lady.     There  is  money  in 


At  Night  261 

lace  curtains  and  perfumery.  Take  a  servant  to 
attend  to  the  house  and  the  children  and  you  go 
out  for  business."  This  is  what  I  told  her.  I 
even  advised  her  to  put  out  a  sign  at  the  door. 

"  This  I  cannot  do,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  can't  —  many  reasons  why." 

So,  I  thought,  you  bit  the  bait.  It  set  me  wild. 
Another  customer,  another  target  for  Sam,  an- 
other prey  for  the  "  Terror."  And  the  children 
will  be  taught  to  lie,  to  cry  and  whine  and  beg. 
They  will  not  be  allowed  to  laugh  or  play.  Every 
piece  of  meat  they  eat  will  be  weighed  and  con- 
trolled. No  roller  skates,  no  new  clothes. 
"  Charity  kids."     No. 

I  made  out  a  report  in  which  I  told  the  whole 
situation.  That  the  woman  has  money  and  is 
about  to  start  in  business  and  needed  no  charity. 
I  also  asked  them  to  keep  my  report  strictly  confi- 
dential, because  I  got  the  details  as  a  "  friend," 
and  not  as  an  investigator.  How  was  I  to  know 
that  the  lady  president  of  a  Sisterhood  affiliated  to 
the  office  had  recommended  this  case?  Natu- 
rally, when  she  saw  that  her  protegee  was  turned 
down  she  came  to  the  office  and  demanded  an 
explanation.  The  Manager  showed  her  my  re- 
port. The  lady  declared  that  it  was  a  tissue  of 
lies,  and  promised  to  bring  the  applicant  to  the 
office  and  have  her  face  me.     When  I  entered  the 


262  Crimes  of  Charity 

private  room  of  the  Manager  he  began  excusing 
himself  because  he  was  compelled  to  put  me  in  a 
rather  unpleasant  position.  However,  he  must 
prove  to  the  lady  that  "  our  investigation  is  a 
thorough  one,"  therefore  he  must  ask  me  to  face 
the  applicant.  I  told  him  I  would  not  do  it  under 
any  circumstances.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  said,  I 
had  betrayed  her  confidence. 

"  I  have  promised  and  you  must  do  it,"  he  re- 
peated. 

*'  You  should  not  have  promised  before  asking 
me,"  I  retorted  hotly. 

He  disregarded  my  remark  and  called  the  presi- 
dent of  the  Sisterhood  to  the  desk.  He  intro- 
duced me  and  said  that  I  was  going  to  prove  the 
case. 

"  No,  I  will  not,  sir,"  I  repeated.  "  I  have 
told  you  that  my  report  was  strictly  confidential." 

The  gentleman  wanted  to  demonstrate  his  su- 
perior position,  and  ordered.  I  refused  again, 
finished  it  off  with  telling  them  both  all  I  thought 
about  their  work  and  tendered  violently  my  resig- 
nation. 

Coming  from  the  office  I  saw  Sam  aiming  a 
"  greeting  "  at  an  old  man  who  sat  in  a  corner  of 
the  waiting  room.  I  watched  him  doing  it.  No 
sooner  was  he  through  than  I  got  hold  of  him, 
boxed  his  ears  soundly  and  before  any  one  had 
time  to  interfere  I  had  turned  up  his  head  and  spat 


At  Night  263 

upon  him  full  in  the  face.  It  was  a  disgusting  act, 
but  a  sweet  revenge.  I  did  it,  then  called  out, 
"  Feel  how  it  tastes  —  you  do  it  to  every  one." 

Needless  to  say,  the  whole  office  was  up  in  a 
second.  There  was  a  terrible  uproar.  I  won 
the  enmity  of  the  whole  bunch.  I  had  hit  Sam  — 
the  pet,  the  future  Manager;  Sam,  the  greatest  of 
them  all;  debased  him  in  front  of  the  applicants. 
The  Assistant  Manager  came  out  to  investigate 
what  the  noise  was  about.  And  no  one  —  no 
one,  not  even  the  old  man  who  was  the  direct  cause 
of  it,  whose  face  was  still  wet  from  Sam's  spittle, 
no  one  wanted  to  tell  on  Sam. 

"  Look,  old  man,  your  face  is  yet  full  of  spittle." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  he  answered,  "  to 
beat  a  boy.     Shame,  shame." 

Soon  all  the  applicants  looked  angrily  at  me  and 
many  said:  "  Shame,  shame."  Not  one  man  or 
woman  would  admit  that  they  had  seen  him  do  it 
at  other  times.     I  almost  cried  with  rage. 

The  assistant  manager  was  very  much  upset  and 
wondered  that  I  should  do  such  a  thing.  "  It 
puts  you  in  a  dangerous  position,"  he  told  me. 

I  laughed.  "  My  work  is  done.  I  have  re- 
signed," I  answered  as  I  went  away.  It's  the  best 
thing  that  could  have  happened. 

I  had  a  fine  day.  But  why  did  not  that  old 
man  tell  the  truth.  If  he  were  younger  —  But 
it's  all  over  now.     I  am  happy.     I  had  a  fine  day. 


THURSDAY 

WHAT  I  vaguely  guessed  and  knew 
and  feared,  has  happened.  The 
Erikson  woman  did  agree  to  part 
with  her  children.  Not  only  that  but  she  seems 
to  look  upon  their  acceptance  by  the  institution 
as  a  great  favour.  The  manager  saw  his  chance 
and  is  making  difficulties.  Now  the  woman  begs 
that  her  children  be  taken  away  and  she  will  at- 
tend to  herself.  If  it  had  not  been  only  yesterday 
that  she  seemed  so  determined  not  to  part  with 
them  I  would  think  that  prospective  matrimony 
is  the  cause  of  her  change  of  heart.  The  Little 
God  is  a  mean  fellow,  and  with  his  dart  often  poi- 
sons a  heart;  especially  a  mother's.  But  after 
all  I  know  this  is  not  the  reason.  The  woman  is 
too  hungry  to  think  of  love.  Nature  is  on  her 
guard.  She  does  not  want  hungry  beings  to  pro- 
create. What  is  more  certain  is  that  she  can't 
stand  hunger,  can't  see  her  children  hungry,  and 
has  probably  made  up  her  mind  that  the  children's 
health,  life,  is  worth  her  unhappiness.  There  is 
yet  another  possibility.     Some  "  Madame  "  may 

have  learned  her  plight  and  influenced  her  to  go 

264 


Thursday  265 

the  easy  way.  She  is  not  a  beauty,  but  she  is  an 
atractive  kind.  Blonde,  fleshy,  round,  healthy,  a 
good  reproducing  animal.  In  normal  circum- 
stances she  would  be  a  nice  mother  of  ten  children 
and  yet  remain  rosy  and  tempting.  Under  the 
tutelage  of  a  "  madame  "  she  will  "  go  it  "  for  a 
few  years  and  then  finish  on  the  Bowery  or  in 
Cuba  in  a  "  speak  easy."  A  good  many  women 
have  of  late  discovered  that  they  have  relatives  in 
Cuba,  have  given  their  children  to  the  asylum  and 
have  gone  to  seek  their  "  rich  relations."  I  know 
that  some  white  slaver  is  after  them.  It  is  easy  to 
get  at  the  objects  of  charity.  They  are  kept  in 
one  district. 

However,  she  did  not  say  that  she  was  going 
to  Cuba  so  there  is  no  use  thinking  about  it.  She 
told  me  that  she  would  work  as  a  servant.  She 
thinks  she  will  be  an  excellent  cook.  She  will  sell 
her  household  goods  (a  second-hand  dealer  will 
not  give  her  more  than  ten  dollars  for  them  all) 
and  until  she  finds  a  place  she  will  board  with  some 
kind  neighbour.  She  seems  certain  that  in  a  few 
years  she  will  accumulate  enough  money  to  bring 
her  children  back  home  and  start  in  some  busi- 
ness.    This  is  just  why  I  am  suspicious. 

As  she  spoke  to  the  investigator  she  abjectly 
degraded  and  accused  herself  for  not  having  ac- 
cepted what  "  that  fine  big  gentleman  "  proposed 
to  her. 


266  Crimes  of  Charity 

"  I  have  been  a  fool  —  with  no  brain  in  head," 
she  continually  repeated. 

"  No  understan' —  they  want  me  good  and 
children  eatings  every  day.  Please  —  please. 
No,  I  no  more  fool.     Take  children." 

That  change  of  heart  in  twenty-four  hours,  in  a 
mother's  heart,  is  due  to  something  else  than  hun- 
ger. As  a  matter  of  fact  she  is  not  hungry  now, 
neither  are  the  children.  There  was  too  much 
animal  life  in  them.  They  wanted  to  play.  The 
mother  did  not  look  at  them  as  she  looked  yes- 
terday. She  seemed  to  want  to  get  rid  of  them, 
as  though  they  were  a  hindrance.  They  are  in 
her  way  —  in  her  way  to  where?  Servantdom 
cannot  have  had  such  promise  for  her  as  to  make 
her  part  with  the  children.  Hungry  people  look 
differently  at  their  children.  They  feel  themselves 
guilty  when  the  children  have  no  food,  and  are 
apt  to  look  upon  their  greatest  faults  with  con- 
doning eyes.  Mrs.  Erikson  was  severe  with  them 
to-day.  The  children  annoy  her.  She  wants  to 
get  rid  of  them. 

Although  the  arrangements  were  made  tele- 
phonically  in  a  few  minutes,  the  Manager  kept 
the  mother  and  children  waiting  the  whole  day  in 
the  waiting  room.  I  know  from  former  experi- 
ence that  this  is  done  in  order  to  impress  the 
woman  with  the  difficulty  of  placing  the  children 
in  an  orphan  home,  and  so  that  she  will  weigh 


Thursday  267 

carefully  before  she  takes  them  out,  in  case  the 
children  complain. 

As  a  rule  it  works  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
office.  On  Mrs.  Erikson  it  was  probably  worked 
as  a  punishment  also.  She  was  told  to  come  to- 
morrow. 

The  Manager  told  her  that  he  was  working 
very  hard  to  get  them  placed.  The  mother  was 
weary  and  anxious.  The  little  girl  wanted  to 
catch  a  paper  flying  about  the  room.  The  mother 
ran  after  her  and  slapped  the  child.  Yesterday 
she  said  she  would  not  separate  from  them;  to- 
day she  slaps  them.  She  wants  to  get  rid  of  them. 
They  are  in  her  way.     In  her  way  to  what? 

It  was  very  funny  during  lunch  time.  As  a  rule 
we  all  sit  at  one  table.  I  usually  sit  near  Cram. 
As  I  entered  the  lunchroom  to-day  the  chairs  were 
so  placed  that  there  was  no  room  for  me.  They 
were  all  so  busy  eating,  seemingly,  that  they  did 
not  notice  me  at  all.  The  waitress,  not  knowing 
of  my  disgrace,  brought  a  chair  and  tried  to  place 
it  near  Cram,  but  that  worthy  motioned  her  away. 

"  It's  for  the  gentleman,"  she  said,  pointing  at 
me,  and  Cram  reluctantly  gave  in.  Not  a  word 
during  the  meal.  All  ate  very  hurriedly.  They 
even  shortened  their  stay,  did  not  take  any  coffee. 
Several  times  I  tried  to  start  a  conversation,  but 
apparently  they  did  not  hear.  It  angered  and 
amused  me.     Bunch  of  brutes,  I  wanted  to  tell 


268  Crimes  of  Charity 

them  all  what  I  thought  of  them  and  their  work. 
Not  to  scoff  or  insult.  I  wanted  to  awaken  in 
them  human  sentiments.  I  wanted  to  preach.  I 
felt  in  me  a  power  to  move  stone.  But  one  look 
at  their  stony  faces,  and  all  desire  for  speech  was 
gone.  A  frozen  audience,  an  actor  would  say. 
Brutes,  callous,  hardened  criminals.  I  sometimes 
think  it's  the  revenge  of  fate.  They  rob  the  poor 
of  self-respect,  and  are  robbed  in  turn  of  the  noble 
sentiment  of  pity.  Even  Pan  would  throw  away 
his  flute  if  he  had  to  play  to  them. 

In  the  afternoon  the  Assistant  Manager  called 
me  in  and  said  that  he  could  yet  smooth  it  out  for 
me  If  I  would  apologise  to  Sam.  I  laughed  at  the 
suggestion. 

"  I  am  not  very  sure  that  I  would  succeed,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  think  I  could  manage  it.  I  have  a 
real  affection  for  you,  and  it  was  very  hard  on 
me  to  see  you  committing  such  an  act." 

I  assured  him  that  I  would  not  apologise  to 
Sam  and  even  said  that  I  would  do  it  over  again 
were  I  to  catch  him  doing  the  same  thing.  But 
the  Manager  did  not  want  to  hear  of  it.  "  Sam 
has  never  done  anything  of  the  kind  *  intention- 
ally,' "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  were  excited  and 
took  for  a  deliberate  act  what  was  only  an  acci- 
dent. What  you  should  have  done  was  to  explain 
to  the  boy  that  spitting  elsewhere  than  in  a  spit- 
toon is  contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  house,  contrary 


Thursday  269 

to  health  and  politeness."  What  was  the  use  of 
arguing  with  that  man  ?  He  did  not  want  to  see 
the  shadow  of  the  Pagoda : 

"  Look,  man,  here  you  stand  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Pagoda." 

"  This  Pagoda  throws  no  shadow.  Wc  all 
know  that  this  Pagoda  throws  no  shadow." 

"  But  you  stand  on  it  now !  " 

*'  I  don't  see  it.     You  are  an  infidel." 

"  I  saw  Sam  doing  it." 

"  No,  Sam  has  never  done  such  a  thing." 

"  But  he  did  it." 

I  repeated  to  the  assistant  what  I  told  the  man- 
ager yesterday.  He  listened  with  bowed  head. 
Has  he  a  conscience  ?  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  G.  was 
prompted  to  his  solicitude  for  me  by  the  fact  that 
they  fear  I  will  make  this  public,  also  that  the 
Manager  has  instructed  him  to  smooth  matters. 
That  oily  man  wants  no  friction.  He  thought  I 
was  sorry  to  have  thrown  away  the  job  and  gave 
me  an  opportunity  to  keep  it,  by  degrading  myself. 
They  think  that  if  I  really  need  the  position  I  will 
not  stop  at  such  a  small  item  as  apologising  to 
Sam.  The  Assistant  even  mentioned  "  duties  to 
family."  They  know  how  to  coerce.  I  told  him 
that  I  had  had  enough  of  this  work  and  was  not 
anxious  to  remain  and  that  as  for  my  *'  salary,"  it 
kept  me  in  cigarettes.  This  cut  short  the  discus- 
sion.    He  understood  that  I  was  in  no  need,  con- 


270  Crimes  of  Charity 

sequently  he  could  not  degrade  me.  The  law  of 
the  scoundrel. 

It  made  me  think  of  that  woman  in  black. 
How  the  "  Terror  "  tore  the  shawl  from  her  face. 
"  If  you  are  ashamed  to  show  your  face  there  is 
no  need  to  come  here  at  all."  She  was  in  need. 
She  had  her  choice  between  the  frying  pan  and  the 
fire.  She  jumped  straight  into  the  flames.  Evi- 
dently she  felt  it  was  the  shortest  route  to  death. 
I  am  not  so  sure  of  that. 

They  rage  not  to  be  able  to  bend  me. 

Suddenly  I  felt  as  though  a  heavy  weight  had 
been  lifted  from  my  shoulders.  I  walked  out  into 
the  street.  It  seemed  broader,  lighter.  Rapid 
steps  brought  me  to  the  wharf.  In  time  to  see 
the  sunset.  To  mingle  with  the  crowd.  The 
smell  of  rope  and  tar  and  of  the  acrid  sweat  of 
the  home-going  workers  gave  me  new  hope. 

They  will  arise. 


THE   END 


ONE  OF  OUR  BIGGEST  INDUSTRIES 

ACCORDING  to  the  Census  of  191  o  the  aggregate 
number  of  benevolent  institutions  in  the  United 
States  was  5,408.  Of  these,  4,420  made  reports  of 
some  kind  to  the  Census;  in  other  words  988  institutions 
failed  to  report  at  all.  The  number  of  institutions  reporting 
receipts  was  4,281 ;  the  amount  reported  for  the  year 
1910  was  $118,379,859;  1,127  institutions  failed  to  report 
their  receipts.  The  number  of  institutions  reporting 
payments  during  the  year  was  4,287;  amount  reported 
$111,498,155;  1,121  institutions  failed  to  report  their  payments. 
The  number  of  benevolent  institutions  reporting  the  value  of 
their  property  at  close  of  the  year  1910  was  3,871;  amount 
reported,  $643,878,141;  1,537  institutions  failed  to  report  the 
value  of  their  property.  If  all  the  institutions  had  reported 
receipts  to  the  Census  in  1910  the  amount  would  reach  two 
hundred  million  dollars  yearly.  If  all  the  institutions  had 
reported  the  value  of  their  property,  and  this  value  should  be 
brought  up  to  date,  the  amount  would  be  near  to  one  thousand 
million  dollars.  The  information  asked  by  the  Census  was: 
(i)  receipts  from  State,  county,  municipal  appropriations,  in- 
vested funds,  donations,  etc.;  (2)  expenditures  for  general 
running  expense;  (3)  value  of  property  at  close  of  year.  I 
quote  the  Census  of  1910:  "  On  information  furnished  from 
the  returns  it  became  clear  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
obtain  the  desired  information,  at  least  in  detail.  Some 
institutions  evidently  did  not  keep  the  necessary  records, 
others  objected  to  making  public  their  private  finances." 

Property  of  one  billion  dollars!  Annual  income  of  two 
hundred  million  dollars!  And  they  "  don't  keep  the  neces- 
sary financial  records  and  object  to  making  public  their  pri- 
vate finances." 

The  number  of  paupers  under  the  supervision  of  these 
"  benevolent "  institutions  is  more  than  two  millions.  Two 
out  of  every  hundred  people  in  the  United  States  are  in  the 
clutches  of  organised  charity. 

It  is  one  of  the  biggest  industries  in  the  United  States! 


271 


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